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DOWN 


Among  the  Crackers. 


By  ROSA  PENDLETON  CHILES. 


CINCINNATI 

THE  EDITOR  PUBLISHING  CO 

1900 


■® 


COPYRIGHTED 

1900. 

THE     EDITOR    PUBLISHING  CO. 


TO 

MARION  J.  VERDERY 

A  GEOKGIA  GENTLEMAN. 


PREFACE. 

Though  the  village,  Walesea,  has  real  geographical 
significance  and  the  old  college  on  the  hill  is  the  Rome 
to  which  all  roads  of  the  section  lead,  it  must  not  by 
any  means  he  thought  that  all,  or  indeed,  any  personages 
in  the  book  have  real  existence  here.  Some,  ready  to 
draw  analogies  as  well  between  the  characters  of  a  novel 
and  men  and  women  who  move  in  the  daily  course  of 
life  as  between  Alpine  and  Rocky  mountain  scenery, 
may,  indeed,  tell  me  they  recognize  in  one  or  another  a 
neighbor,  an  old  friend,  a  student  of  the  college,  or  some 
one  of  whom  they  have  heard ;  but  I,  my  dear  readers, 
who  have  known  these  children  of  my  brain  longer  than 
you,  fail  to  identify  them  with  any  of  the  folks  of  the 
section.  They  may  indeed  possess  characteristics 
known  to  you  in  some  residents  of  Cherokee,  but  I  could 
as  well  point  you  to  owners  of  the  same  in  a  half 
dozen  other  countries  or  states,  for  that  matter.  These 
characters  are  in  part,  of  a  composite  type,  possessing 
qualities  not  so  much  of  individuals  known  to  you  and 
me  as  of  the  class  delineated,  whether  dwellers  in  the 
Empire  State  of  the  South,  or  eleewhere ;  yet  in  larger 
part,  they  are  citizens  of  the  more  mystic  realm  of  the 
imagination,  adapted  to  the  genuine  life  of  the  class  de- 
scribed, and  that  they  have  taken  up  their  abode  in  this 
old  Indian  village,  under  the  shadow  of  Pine  Log, 
and  under  the  powerful  influences  of  modern  intellectual- 
ism,  is  a  compliment  to  the  place,  for  they  had  choice  of 
many  another  in  which  to  live. 

Some  incidents  of  the  book  are  true,  but  these  were 
gathered  from  a  broad  area,  and  by  no  means  all  had 
their  occurrence  within  a  day's  journey  of  Walesea. 
And    what   if    such    things    happen  in    the    lives    of 

^207624 


vi  PREFACE 

these,  as  you  have  known  in  the  lives  of  real 
men  and  women,  dare  you  say  them  nay?  They  have 
as  good  right  to  the  happenings  of  their  lives  as  those 
you  have  known,  and  as  for  the  likeness,  why  there  are 
fishing  parties,  dances,  courtships,  marriages,  deaths, 
murders  in  Europe  as  well  as  here;  and  if  you  tell  me 
you  saw  Mrs.  Brown  in  a  yellow  gown  at  church  on  a 
Sunday,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  saw  Mrs.  Smith  in  a  yellow 
gown  at  church  on  the  very  same  Sunday  in  another 
part  of  the  world.  Should  the  similarity  still  impress 
you,  so  much  the  better  that  the  characters  exist  as 
they  do;  it  will  give  you  abetter  feeling,!  hope,  for  these 
new  acquaintances ;  but  bear  in  mind,  they  are  new 
acquaintances;  you  never  knew  them   before. 

By  the  strange  law  of  contrast,  there  will  be  others 
no  doubt,  to  tell  me  that  they  not  only  have  never 
known  these  characters  before,  but  do  not  believe  they 
could  exist;  to  them  the  genus  "Cracker,"  has  meant 
no  more  nor  less  than  an  idle  boaster,  good  indeed  for 
the  amusement  he  can  afford  the  rest  of  the  world,  but 
so  differentiated  from  it  and  so  fixed  in  his  differentia- 
tion as  to  be  past  all  metamorphosis,  or  even  of  vague 
possibility  of  approach  to  the  ladder  of  progress,  from 
the  topmost  rung  of  which  you  now  observe  him  apart ; 
but  do  you,  my  grand  messieurs  and  mesdames^  get 
closer  to  him,  come  down  from  your  high  post  and 
scan  his  character  face  to  face,  and  do  not  let  the  rip- 
ple of  your  laughter  at  his  droll  remarks  drown  the  fine- 
ness of  the  wit  you  may  find  in  them  ;  watch  him  as  he 
plucks  an  arbutus  blossom  and  places  it  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  tattered  coat;  hear  from  the  echo  across  the 
way  which  repeats  the  sound  of  his  rattling  cart  as  it 
jostles  homeward,  the  words  of  an  old  love  song,  or  of 
* 'Nearer  my  God  to  Thee;"  observe  him,  if  you  please, 
as  he  stoops  over  the  bier  of  a  little  child  and  leaves  on 
its  placid  face  a  trace  of  the  moisture  that  glistens  in  his 
eye  when  you  meet  afterward.  There!  You  know  him 
better  now,  there  is  everything  in  the  point  of  view. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 


DoWQ  Arr)Ong  The  Cracl^ers 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  northern  Georgia,  among  the  foothills  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  is  a  most  interesting  and  beautiful  summit, 
unknown  to  history.  From  its  crest  on  a  summer's  day 
one  sees  various  forms  of  beauty;  lengthened  shadows 
spread  their  trail,  softening  a  hundred  tints,  and  re- 
minding one  of  a  life  dwelling  under  the  mellowing  in- 
fluences of  the  Almighty.  One  hears  the  chirp  of 
mating  birds,  and,  above  it,  the  roar  of  streams  rushing 
down  either  side,  to  make  fertile  twin  valleys ;  sees 
many  a  lover's  leap,  where  a  precipice  looks  gaunt  upon 
a  plain,  many  a  hiding-place  tor  the  fugitive,  where 
bushes  lock  arms  and  spread  their  skirts  to  protect  him; 
sees  curves  and  crooks  and  angles  and  turns,  a  thousand 
shades  and  ten  thousand  tints,  sunshine  and  shadow, 
each  with  a  separate  influence,  but  all  with  an  influence 
for  good.  The  spirit  is  made  tenderer,  the  heart  more 
loving,  the  life  purer;  it  is  a  quiet,  peaceful  road. 

Riding  along  one  day  in  June,  1880,  'in  restful 
thought,  inspired  by  such  surroundings,  I  came  to  a 
sharp  turn  in  the  road,  where  there  came  in  view  an  ob- 
ject so  foreign  to  my  thought  and  the  sweeter  influences 
of  the  moment,  that  I  half  resented  its  appearance,  and 
drew  rein  with  a  haughty  air.  Have  you  never  noticed 
how  resentful  we  become  when  anything  interferes  with 
our  tastes  or  inclinations?  Here,  amid  beauties  which 
the  unselfish  God  had  given  the  world,  and  in  which  I 
was  reveling,  with  heart  gushing  with  gratitude,  in  an 

1 


2  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CKACKERS 

instant  gratitude  turned  to  resentment,  merely  because 
of  an  unsightly  object,  to  whom  the  mountain,  with  its 
mellow  influences,  as  truly  belonged  as  to  me,  and  who 
possibly  needed  them  more.  Certainly  he  looked  as  if 
he  needed  better  influences.  Sitting  listlessly  on  a  log, 
with  a  bundle  of  pine  splinters  by  his  side,  slouched  hat 
over  his  face,  chin  resting  on  his  rough  hand,  he  was  a 
picture  of  unkempt,  uncared-for  humanity. 

"My  friend,  am  I  on  the  right  road  to  Pine  Log?'* 
I  asked. 

*'I  ain't  yer  friend;  I  never  seed  you  'fore  now; 
but  the  nearest  pine  log  I  knows  ennything  'bout's  down 
yonder  er  piece;  I  don't  think  you'll  git  enny  splinters 
off'n  it,  though,  'caze  I's  the  best  splinter-gatherer  in 
these  diggins,  an'  I's  done  'ith  that  log.  Is  you  in  the 
bizness?" 

I  assured  him  that  I  would  not  interfere  with  his 
trade,  and  that  the  Pine  Log  I  was  looking  for  was 
a  small  village  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 

"Oh  !  that  ain't  Pine  Log — that's  Town.  You  see 
this"  (touching  the  mountain)  ''  's  Pine  Log,  and 
them*'  (pointing  to  the  trees)  ''  's  pine  logs,  so  we  calls 
the  place  whar  folks  lives  Town.  We  used  to  call  it 
'Possum  Trot,  'caze  the  'possum  trots  'long  the  pine  log, 
but  now  we  jes'  call  it  Town.  I  guess  this  road  '11  take 
youthar;  leastwise,  it  allurs  takes  me  whin  I  follows 
it." 

He  had  not  risen  while  saying  this,  had  spoken 
with  as  little  exertion  as  possible,  and  now  relapsed  into 
an  attitude  of  silence  and  ease.  I  had  seen  peasants 
abroad,  the  "mountain  whites"  and  "dirt-eaters"  of  our 
own  country,  and  had  heard  of  the  "cracker,"  but  I  had 
never  seen  the  strange,  ignorant  boaster  who  went 
by  that  name.  Now,  however,  I  was  confident  that 
a  specimen  was  before  me.  I  soon  became  more  interest- 
ed in  the  boy  than  in  the  mountain,  but  was  more 
embarrassed  in  his  presence  than  I  have  been  in  circles  of 
the   great.       While    considering   what   to    say    to    best 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  8 

ingratiate  myself  into  his  favor,  he  suddenly  broke  the 
silence  himself  by  asking : 

"Who  be  you  ennyhow,  and  what  you  standin'  thar 
lookin'  't  me  fur?  1  thought  you  wanted  ter  go  cer 
Town.  You  kin  jes'  git  thar  now  'fore  night;  'tain't 
profitable  bizness  nohow  ter  stan'  an'  look  't  folks,  an' 
'tain't  p'lite." 

I  accepted  the  rebuke,  begged  his  pardon,  and  told 
him  that  1  had  no  business  at  Pine  Log;  that  I  was  sim- 
ply riding  through  the  country,  and  had  been  told  that 
I  might  find  a  resting-place  there  that  night,  but  that  if 
he  would  allow  me  I  would  rather  stay  with  him. 

"I  don't  know  whether  dad'll  let  you  or  not;  he 
don't  like  trav'lin'  folks  much — see  they  ought  ter  be  't 
home,  whar  honest  folks  stays." 

I  told  him  that  I  was  there  for  a  good  purpose. 

The  truth  was,  my  mission  was  to  learn  the  real 
condition  of  the  Georgia  "cracker."  An  earnest,  ar- 
dent teacher  of  a  little  school  in  the  village  of  Walesca, 
six  miles  from  Pine  Log  mountain,  had  asked  me  to 
con^e  and  devise  with  him  some  plan  of  saving  the 
"cracker"  from  himself.  The  plan  was  for  me  to  visit 
the  homes  of  these  peculiar  people  without  their  knowl- 
edge of  my  purpose,  and  gain  the  key  to  the  "cracker's" 
soul. 

The  boy  looked  at  me  distrustfully  for  some  seconds, 
and  then  blurted  out: 

"Stranger  trav'lin'  man,  you  got  ter  tell  me  who 
you  is;  I  don't  take  no  man  ter  dad's  house  'out  I  knows 
him." 

This  was  certainly  a  reasonable  demand,  and  easily 
answered  in  an  ordinary  instance,  but  it  was  embarrass- 
ing in  my  case.  I  did  not  care  to  assume  a  fictitious 
name,  for  fear  the  deceit,  afterwards  discovered,  would 
destroy  any  influence  I  might  gain  over  him ;  ana  I  did 
not  care  to  give  my  real  name,  because  known  in  some 
sections  of  that  country,  and  he  might  discover  my  pur- 
pose and  foil  my  plans.  To  gain  time  for  thought  I 
said  : 


4  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'You  have  not  told  me  your  name." 

"That  makes  no  diff' rence;  the  stranger  what's  jes' 
come  tells  his  name  fust  in  these  diggins,  an'  you'd  bet- 
ter out  'ith  yourn  now." 

I  still  hesitated,  and,  with  no  excitement  whatever, 
but  lazily  drawling  out  an  oath,  he  said : 

*'I'd  hit  you  in  the  head  'ith  wun  er  them  pine- 
knots"  (pointing  to  his  splinters)  "if  I  won't  tired  an' 
you  wus  worth  it;  you  ain't  no  'count;  dad's  right; 
I  never  seed  er  trav'lin'  man  wbat  wus  worth  throwin' 
er  splinter  at,  sayin'  nothin'  o'  stayin'  all  night  at 
folks'  house." 

My  situation  was  unfortunate.  A  saving  thought 
came  to  my  mind,  however,  and  I  answered : 

*'My  name,  my  young  friend,  is  Ramla ;"  w^hich  was 
true,  and  yet  not  true. 

*'I  ain't  yer  friend — told  you  wunst — an'  I  ain't 
a-goin'  ter  be  er  friend  ter  no  man  what  behaves  as  you 
do:  more'n  that,  I  ain't  young;  I's  twenty-one  day  arter 
ter-morrer ;  I'se  goin'  ter  sell  them  splinters  an'  make 
mam  bile  me  er  'lasses  stew  'ith  the  money. — My  name's 
Bill — Mr.  Bill  Collins.  Now,  I'll  show  you  the  way  ter 
dad's." 

He  arose  as  lazily  as  Van  Winkle  after  twenty 
years'  sleep,  and  stooped  to  lift  the  pine  splinters,  but  I 
had  already  thrown  them  across  my  saddle,  and  taking 
my  horse's  bridle,  which  was  trailing  in  the  road,  I  was 
ready  to  proceed  when  the  *'cracker"  had  fairly  gotten 
to  his  feet. 

"Hu  !  you're  er  clever  man  arter  all,  but  you  needn't 
ter  be  in  sich  er  hurry ;  we  takes  things  easy  here ,  no 
use  hurryin' — makes  folks  die  too  soon  ;  I  wants  ter 
live.  Some  folks  got  no  jedgment  nohow;  you'd  jes'  's 
well  a-tuk  five  minutes  as  wun  ter  git  ready  ter  go  'ith 
me,  specially's  I  taken  five;  enny  man  what  stays  'ith 
me  's  got  ter  do  's  I  do,  'caze  I  ain't  a  goin'  ter  change. 
See?" 

I    acknowledged   the    necessity  as  gracefully  as  I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES  5 

could,  and  immediately  adapted  my  pace  to  his,  amusing 
myself  trying  to  estimate  the  rate.  Careful  calculation 
made  it  a  mile  and  a  quarter  an  hour.  The  way  was  in- 
teresting, however,  by  a  serpentine  path  down  the 
mountain ;  wild  flowers  charmed  the  eye  with  their 
beauty  and  refreshed  the  soul  with  their  fragrance.  A 
soul  that  flowers  do  not  move  is  but  clay,  and  I  won- 
dered if  the  cracker  boy's  was.  I  was  admiring  a  bank 
of  magnificent  scarlet  and  white  and  cream  and  pink 
azalias,  when  the  boy  stooped,  brushed  away  the  dead 
leaves,  and  with  the  delicacy  of  a  woman,  plucked  a 
rare  arbutus  flower,  belated  in  blooming.  Turning  to 
me,  he  said  : 

"You  like  them  big  honeysuckles;  I  think  this  is  er 
purty  thing." 

The  soul  was  not  all  clay.  I  felt  more  hopeful.  I 
took  the  bud,  as  cheered  as  were  the  Pilgrims  long  ago 
by  the  greeting  of  the  same  happy-omened  mayflower. 
The  mayflower  now  lies  preserved  in  my  study ;  its 
prognostics  of  good  have  come  true.  Its  petals  are 
brown ;  they  are  old,  as  my  story  soon  will  be,  but  the 
flower  will  always  remain  as  a  "sweet  remembrance"  of 
a  hopeful,  happy  past. 

Night  was  coming  on  apace;  the  sun  had  gone  be- 
low the  hill;  I  turned  from  nature's  beauties  to  thi« 
strange  human  being: 

"Bill,  how  do  you  spend  these  long  summer  days?" 

"Well,  I  gits  up  whin  the  sun  doe8,|help8  mam  feed 
the  steer  an'  the  donkey  an'  the  dog,  whittle  'round  till 
she  gits  er  bite  ter  eat  fur  me  an'  dad  an'  the  chillun ; 
thin  I  whit'le's  whin  I  feels  like  't;  goes  ter  sleep  'gin 
whin  I  don't.  'Bout  the  time  the  sun  gits  half  over  the 
mount'n,  I  hitches  Bill — that's  my  donkey — ter  the 
splinter  cart,  an'  goes  ter  town — sometimes  ter  this  town, 
sometimes  ter  that  un"  (pointing  to  either  side  of  the 
mountain.)  "Folks  don't  use  meny  splinters  in  the 
summer,  though,  an'  so  I  don't  go  ever'  day  now. 
Whin  I  does  go,  though,  I  sells  my  splinters  an'   'muses 


6  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES 

the  folks  in  town  some  whin  they  don't  'muse  me.  I 
comes  home  ter  dinner;  thin  I  lounges  'round  till  night, 
without  I  feels  like  comin'  up  here  ter  git  pine.  The 
days  I  goes  ter  town  though,  I  don't  giner'ly  git  pine; 
an'  the  days  I  gits  pine,  I  don't  giner'ly  go  to  town.  I 
takes  life  easy — can't  'ford  ter  die — dunno  whar  folks 
lives  arter  they's  dead.  Thar's  er  preacher  comes  here 
sometimes  an'  tells  me  an'  dad  er  heap  'bout  hebin,  but 
I  don't  think  he  knows  what  he's  talkin'  'bout;  don't 
much  b'lieve  he'll  ever  know  nothin'  'bout  hebin,  'caz© 
he  tried  ter  cheat  me  in  er  donkey  trade  wunst,  an'  got 
bilin'  mad  whin  I  wouldn't  let  him  do  't.  Hu  !  nobody 
beats  me  in  er  donkey  trade.  I's  jes'  the  bes'  man  in 
these  parts  whin  it  comes  ter  'pairin'  mules  an'  donkeys. 
Now,  mam's  er  leetle  better'n  me  on  the  ox  trade." 

I  wondered  what  the  father  w^as  good  for. 

Bill  continued:  "I  knowed  I  was  tryin'  ter  cheat 
the  preacher,  but  he  sed  he  didn't  know  he  wus  tryin' 
ter  cheat  me;  mebbe  he  didn't,  but  you  don't  giner'ly 
fool  me.  I  tells  from  the  cut  o'  er  man's  eye  how  much 
<;heatin's  in  his  head." 

"And  can  you  not  be  discovered  in  the  same  way?" 
I  asked. 

"Naw;  takes  er  better  man  'n  discivered  Americy 
ter  tell  whin  I  means  ter  cheat,  'caze,  you  see,  I  alius 
means  ter  cheat,  an'  T  alius  looks  the  same." 

We  turned  a  curve  just  then,  and  I  saw  near  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  a  small  farm,  scarcely  more  than 
an  ordinary  field,  a  log  hut  wnth  no  glass  in  the  windows, 
merely  sliding  boards  ;  a  door  straining  to  stand  in  place 
■on  one  hinge,  broken-down  steps,  and  a  dirt  chimney, 
whose  top  just  reached  the  low  roof. 

In  front  of  the  hut,  with  legs  crossed  and  arms 
folded,  sat  a  dwarfed  object  that  might  have  been  termed 
a  man,  though  he  bore  little  resemblance  to  this  highest 
order  of  creatures.  He  was  smoking,  and  from  the  dis- 
tance of  many  yards  the  vile  odor  of  drugged  tobacco 
was  sickening. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  7 

"That's  dad,"  said  the  boy  ;  and,  as  we  approached, 
he  continued  :  "Dad,  this  is  Mr.  Ramla;  he's  er  trav- 
'lin  man,  but  I  think  he's  er  right  good  chap,  an'  I  wish 
you'd  let  him  stay  all  night  'ith  me." 

The  man  arose,  offered  me  a  rickety  chair,  and  be- 
gan smoking  again. 

"Stranger,  d'  you  smoke?  Bill,  bring  t'other  pipe.'* 

I  answered  "No,"  more  .thankful  than  ever  before 
that  I  did  not  smoke. 

Bill,  meanwhile,  was  attending  to  my  horse.  He 
turned  him  out  in  the  yard  to  graze  with  the  wonderful 
donkey,  which  was  no  larger  than  a  large  dog.  It  was 
uncurried,  ill  kempt,  and  bore  the  stamp  of  the  people's 
life. 

I  talked  of  the  country,  the  crops,  and  everything 
that  I  thought  of  interest  to  the  old  cracker,  but  he 
seemed  indifferent  to  almost  every  subject,  as  listless  and 
as  devoid  of  thought  as  a  mortal  can  be.  In  despair  I 
looked  for  the  boy,  and  saw  him  walking  across  the 
field  by  the  side  of  a  woman,  who  was  leading  an  old 
gray  ox.  The  ox  and  the  woman  wore  the  same  un- 
kempt appearance  as  the  house,  the  donkey,  the  boy,  and 
the  man ;  if  there  was  a  difference,  the  woman  looked 
least  cared  for  of  all.  With  ragged  dress,  hair  dishev- 
eled and  matted,  sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  showing 
brown,  hard-muscled  arms,  she  was  a  forbidding  object, 
and  yet  my  mission  drew  me  to  her. 

"Bill,"  called  the  father,  "the  old  'oman  'il  'tend 
ter  that  steer.  You  come  here;  fill  this  pipe.  How 
many  times  must  I  tell  you  ter  let  wimmen  do  the  wuk? 
Wimmen  must  wuk,  an'  men  must  rest.  I  have  ter  set 
here  all  day  ter  see  that  yer  mam  plows  the  ox  an'  hoes 
the  corn  right.  It's  leetle  rest  I'll  git  watchin'  you  too. 
I  want  yer  ter  be  er  gintleman  o'  ease,  an'  lemme  be 
wun  too.  I's  glad,"  he  said,  turning  to  me,  "that  all 
my  chillun's  boys;  gals  wants  ter  do  nothin',  an'  has 
ter  be  watched  all  the  time.  That  old  'oman's  the 
bother  o'   my  life.     Sal,    feed  the  steer  and  git  supper 


8  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

right  away,"  he  called  to  his  wife.  ''Stranger,  is  you 
married?" 

I  thought  of  a  cozy,  quiet  home  where  a  woman 
reigned  supreme,  of  soft,  tender  hands,  unused  to  hard 
labor,  of  a  heart  never  hurt  nor  hardened  by  brutal  com- 
mands, and  somehow  I  thought  better  of  myself  than  I 
was  wont  to  think. 

Bill  asked  if  I  wanted  to  "tidy  myself  a  bit,"  and  I 
followed  him  into  the  poor  shell  said  to  shelter  a  home. 
The  term  "home"  sounded  so  empty  when  applied  here 
as  to  seem  a  mockery.  The  odor  of  fried  meat  which 
filled  the  place  was  preferable  to  the  smell  of  tobacco  out- 
side, and  I  found  later  that  it  was  better  than  the  combi- 
nation of  fumes  inside.  "Indeed,"  I  thought, "every  evil 
hath  its  good,"  for  the  inmates  of  the  small  cabin  were 
doubtless  kept  from  many  a  foul  disease  by  the  frequent 
fumes  of  cooking  that  permeated  everything,  and  passed 
out  through  crack  and  crevice.  It  was  well,  too,  that 
the  logs  of  the  hut  left  room  for  air  and  light  to  pass  in 
and  drive  out  some  impurities.  The  room  was  divided 
by  a  curtain  discolored  by  smoke.  On  one  side.  Bill  ex- 
plained, was  the  home  "of  mam  an'  dad  an'  seven  chil- 
lun;"  on  the  other  was  the  home  of  his  brother,  younger 
than  himself,  his  wife  and  one  child — twelve  in  the 
space  of  a  room  fourteen  by  twelve. 

We  were  asked  to  supper.  I  was  formally  introduced 
to  the  mother  and  other  members  of  the  family. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "I  have  just  been  remarking  to 
your  husband  upon  this  fine  country." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  fine  'nough  fur  dogs  an'  men, 
but  it's  turrible  on  women  an'  steers." 

I  looked  at  the  hound  at  the  old  cracker's  feet,  and 
felt  the  truth  of  her  saying. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  next  thought  was  of  my  resting-place  that  night. 
My  friend  in  Walesca  had  been  thoughtful  enough 
of  my  comfort  to  suggest  my  taking  a  hammock,  as  the 
nights  were  so  warm  that  it  might  be  more  pleasant  out 
of  doors.  So  I  told  Bill  that,  as  he  was  already  supplied 
with  two  bedfellows  in  his  little  brothers,  I  would  not  be 
so  inconsiderate  as  to  cramp  him  more,  and  I  proceeded 
to  swing  my  hammock  as  far  from  the  house  as  possible. 

Under  the  influence  of  a  favoring  breeze  that 
brought  from  the  mountain  perfume  of  flowers  and 
trees,  I  went  to  sleep  in  peace  and  comfort,  and  with  ev- 
en a  nascent  hope  of  a  better  life  for  the  cracker.  The 
memory  of  the  arbutus  blossom  brightened  darker 
thoughts,  and  I  dreamed  that  Bill,  in  white  robes,  stood 
beside  my  narrow,  swinging  couch  as  a  type  of  new  life 
in  the  future — "of  light  in  darkness."  Upon  his  head 
was  a  wreath  of  arbutus  flowers,  delicate  and  beautiful. 

I  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  a  great  champing 
near  me,  and  an  awful,  unmistakable  bray,  and  I  dis- 
covered that  Bill,  the  donkey,  having  to  divide  his  store 
of  grass  with  my  horse  had  found  the  division  too  short, 
and  was  revenging  himself  for  the  invasion  by  trying  to 
convert  his  master  into  grass  before  his  time.  Of  course 
I  resented  the  insult,  but  later  I  thought  better  of  the 
donkey's  feelings,  and  treated  him  to  a  hearty  meal  of 
corn. 

Sunrise  is  scarcely  more  beautiful  in  California  than 
on  Pine  Log.  I  walked  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  to 
see  it.  The  dews  had  crept  out  in  the  still  of  night  to 
catch  the  sun's  first  rays  and  store  away  some  new 
beams  of  his  marvelous  light.  Oh  !  you  rogues,  I  have 
caught  you.     You  may  blush, as  a  roseate  beam  falls  up- 

9 


10  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

on  you.  then  pale  with  the  shades  of  death  as  you  give 
up  yourself  and  your  stolen  light-beams  to  valley,  mead- 
ow and  mountain  moss-beds  as  a  reasonable  sacrifice  to 
justice,  but  I  shall  see  these  during  all  the  day,  and  they 
will  tell  the  story  of  your  roguery  by  the  fresh  life  and 
beauty  that  you  impart. 

I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  cabin.  The  poor  cracker 
woman  was  feeding  her  ox.  I  relieved  her  of  the  task, 
and  told  her  that  I  thought  of  my  wife,  and  did  it  for 
her  sake,  and  possibly  she  remembered  the  time,  when, 
before  their  marriage,  her  liege  lord  had,  in  his  rough 
way,  spoken  a  word  of  sentiment.  However  it  was,  a 
great  rough  hand  brushed  the  stray  hair  from  her  face, 
and  a  glistening  moisture  trembled  in  her  eye,  like  the 
diamond  dew-drops  I  had  just  seen  tremble  on  the  grass, 
and  I  thought  other  gems  were  out  stealing  the  sun- 
beams. 

She  said :  "I  reckin  you  loves  yer  wife  better'n  Jim 
loves  me." 

I  didn't  feel  inclined  to  dispute  it,  but  I  answered: 
**Men  sometimes  love  their  wives  more  than  they  show 
that  they  love  them." 

The  words  had  a  cold, hard, doleful  comfort  in  them, 
as  words,  when  facts  combat  them,  often  have. 

Bill  came  out,  and  the  woman  went  in  to  prepare 
breakfast. 

*'I  say,  Mr.  Man,"  accosted  Bill,  "don't  you  want 
ter  go  ter  town  'ith  me  ter-day  ter  sell  splinters  an'  buy 
'lasses,  or  is  you  got  ter  go  'way !  Stranger,  I  likes  you. 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  go." 

I  could  not  lose  my  opportunity. 

*'Why,  Bill,I  shall  be  delighted  to  stay  and  to  go  to 
town  with  you.  You  are  very  kind  to  ask  me.  Let  me 
help  you  feed  the  donkey,  though  I  really  do  not  think 
he  should  be  hungry;"  and  I  told  him  the  circumstance 
of  the  night. 

After  doubling  into  unrecognizable  shapes,  accom- 
panied by  hearty  haw-haws  of  laughter,  for  a  minute  or 
two,  Bill  spoke : 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  11 

'*Well,  ef  that  don't  beat  all;  that  donkey's  a  cur'us 
animule.  He  really  beats  me  sometimes,  and  that's  hard 
ter  do.  He  gits  contrary,  you  know — don't  want  ter 
haul  splinters — gits  awful  sick,  an'  rolls  an'  groans 
worse'n  dad  whin  he  had  mumps.  You  see  dad  tried  ter 
holler,  and  ever'  time  he  opened  his  mouth  er  pain  struck 
him, fust  on  wun  side, an'  thin  on  t'other,an'  his  jaws  got 
cotched  worse'n  lockjaw;  an'  of  all  the  faces!  You 
know  dad  ain't  very  good-lookin'  no  time.  Well,  Bill 
fell  down  in  the  middle  o'  the  road  wun  day  'ith  a  kinder 
spell  like  dad's,rolled  his  eyes,an'  opened  his  mouth  back 
to  his  ye'rs,  tryin'  ter  tell  me  what's  the  matter.  He 
fooled  me ;  man  can't  do  it,  but  that  donkey  did.  I  un- 
hitched him,  tied  him  ter  er  bush,  an'  went  home  ter  git 
mam  ter  come  an'  docter  him.  Dad  won't  at  home,  an' 
so  mam  come  an'  brought  lin'ment  an'  stuff  fer  ,Bill,  an' 
what  d'  you  reckin?  Bill  had  done  broke  the  rope  an' 
wuz  gone;  thar  won't  er  hair  o'  that  donkey  ter  be  seen. 
So  mam  an'  me  had  ter  haul  the  splinters  an'  'bout  the 
time  we  got  home,  an'  wuz  pantin'  fur  breath,  I 
looked  up  on  the  mountain  an'  thar  wus  Bill  grazin' 
peaceful-like.  I  wus  too  tired  ter  go  arter  him.  He 
know'd  I'd  be,  an'  so  he'd  hid  till  I  got  home;  an'  he 
grazed  an'  frisked  'round  more'n  enny  donkey  you  ever 
see;  an'  'bout  night  he  come  home  an'  rubbed  his  head 
agin  my  arm,  an'  tried  ter  put  his  hoofs  on  me,  playful- 
like,  an'  sorry,  too,  'til  I  had  ter  laugh  't  his  sense,  an' 
couldn't  beat  him.  Ain't  no  donkey  got's  much  sense's 
Bill.  I  think  he  gits  it  from  me.  Now,  stranger,  if 
you'll  stay  'ith  the  two  Bills  er  day  er  two,  we'll  teach 
you  some  sharp  tricks,  too." 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  breakfast  over,  we 
prepared  for  the  trip  to  town.  The  cart  could  not  hold  Bill 
and  the  splinters  too,  and  the  donkey  could  not  pull  both. 
So  I  left  my  horse  and  walked  with  the  boy.  The  time 
was  beguiled  by  many  a  quaint  story  told  by  the  cracker, 
— each  egotistical  and  boastful — experiences  that  made 
his  life.     I  remember  three  of  the  stories. 


12  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CBACKERS 

"You  Bee,  we  trades  down  here  and  over  yonder," 
(pointing  to  Pine  Log  and  Walesca.)  "Whin  we  gits  in 
debt  't  wun  place,  we  goes  ter  t'other;  whin  mam  can't 
git  things  she  giner'ly  sends  rae,  an'  I  giner'ly  gits 'em. 
I  come  down  here  wunst  fur  corfee.  'Mornin',  Mr, 
Storekeeper;  I  wants  er  half  er  pound  o'  corfee.'  *No, 
Bill,  you  can't  have  't,  nor  nothin'  else  here  'less  you 
pays  fur  it.'  'How  d'  you  know  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  pay 
fur  't?  I  giner'ly  pays  my  debts.'  I  had  twenty  cents. 
I  won't  a-goin'  ter  let  him  have  it,  though,  but  1  didn't 
tell  him  so  ;  I  laid  it  down  on  the  counter,  an'  thin  I  sed, 
*You  know  my  donkey.  Bill?'  Oh,  yes,  heknow'd  him; 
an'  thinkin'  he'd  like  ter  hear  somethin'  'bout  his  ac- 
quaintance, I  tole  him  'bout  Bill's  foolin'  me  an'  gittin' 
sick.  Thin  I  sed,  'Don't  you  think  he's  er  smart  animule?* 
He  sed  smart  's  he  ever  seed,  handed  me  the  corfee,  an'  I 
picked  up  the  twenty  cents  an'  walked  out.  Whin  I'd  got 
'bout  fifty  yards  frum  the  store,  I  hoUer'd  back  ter  him, 
'I  say,  mister.  Bill  ain't  half's  smart's  his  master.'  We 
wus  agoin'  home  thin,  an'  I  didn't  have  no  splinters  ter 
haul;  he  couldn't  'a'  caught  me  in  ten  miles.  Well,  I 
didn't  'tend  not  ter  pay  the  man,  so  'bout  er  month 
arter  that,  I  went  in  ag'in.  He  wanted  ter  drive  me 
outen  the  store,  and  sed  he'd  have  that  twenty  cents. 
*0f  course,'  I  sed,  'that's  what  I  come  ter  town  fur,  jes' 
'spressly  ter  pay  you  that  twenty  cents.  I  alius  pays  my 
debts — told  you  that  wunst. — But,  say.  Bill's  larned  er 
smarter  trick'n  gittin'  sick.  Want  ter  hear  't?'  'Naw, 
I  don't.  I'se  tired  o'  you  an'  yer  donkey,  too.'  'AH 
right;  I  talks  ter  no  man  what's  tired  o'  me,  an'  Bill 
don't  stand  'fore  yer  store  no  more.'  'But  gimme  that 
money,'  he  sed.  'Hold  on,  mister;  you's  tired  o'  me  an' 
my  donkey;  now  you  kin  git  tired  o'  waitin'  fur  yer 
money.'  'I's  tired  o'  waitin'  fur  it  now,  I  tell  you,  is 
what  I's  talkin'  'bout.'  'Oh,  thin,  'tain't  me  an'  Bill; 
it's  the  money;  thin  I'll  trade  'ith  you  some  more; 
here's  yer  twenty  cents.  Now  gimme  thirty  cents' 
worth    o'    t'bacco;  I   chaws   er   heap   these  days.'     He 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  13 

wrapped  the  t'bacco,  handed  it  ter  me  an'  sed,  'Whar's 
the  thirty  cents?'  I  felt  'round  in  my  pocket,  an'  it 
warn't  thar ;  thin  I  turned  my  pockets  wrong  side  out, 
an'  thar  wus  er  great  big  hole  in  wun  o'  'm ;  I'd  jes'  cut 
it  ten  minutes  'fore.  I  sed,  'I  been  standin'  by  that 
donkey,  an'  I  knows  he's  bit  er  hole  in  my  pocket  an' 
swallowed  the  money;  I'll  choke  him  now.'  Bill  saw 
me  comin'  an'  galloped  off.  I  run  arter  him,  an'  hol- 
lered back,  'Mister,  the  new  trick  that  Bill's  larned  is 
that  foolin'  er  storekeeper  is  more  fun  'n  foolin'  me.' 
I'd  trained  Bill  er  week  ter  run  whin  he  saw  me  comin.' 
I  bad  more  trouble  teachin'  him  not  ter  run  arter  wards 
than  I  had  teachin'  him  ter  run.  He  wanted  ter  have  er 
race  ever'  time  I  trird  ter  ketch  him.  I  went  back  ter 
the  store  in  'bout  er  week,  an'  that  man  wus  so  mad  he 
wouldn't  speak  ter  me.  Thar  was  another  man  standin' 
by,  an'  I  sed,  ^Mister,  I  wish  you'd  toll  that  storekeeper 
somethin'  fur  me.'  He  sed  he  would.  'Tell  him  that 
Bill's  donkey's  mighty  sick,  poor's  er  snail,  but  his  con- 
science hurts  him  fur  treatin'  him  so  bad,  an'  I  helped 
him  down  here  this  mornin'  ter  'pologiz.'  The  store- 
keeper laughed  in  spite  o'  tryin' not  ter.  *Tell  him  Bill's 
bad  off;  he'd  give  'most  ennything  fur  er  bottle  o'  lin'- 
ment.  Tell  him  ter  state  the  price,  an'  we'll  pay  fur  it 
— got  the  money  right  here.'  The  storekeeper  took 
down  er  bottle.  'Twenty  cents,'  sed  he.  'Now,  ax 
him,'  sed  I,  'ter  square  'counts  'ith  me;  I  owes  him 
thirty  cents  fur  t'bacco  an'  twenty  cents  fur  lin'ment, 
an'  he  owes  me  fifty  cents  fur  larnin'  him  how  donkeys 
kin  be  trained — cheap  larnin' — ain't  that  fair,  stranger?' 
He  sed  'twus,  an'  I  left  er  crowd  o'  folks  hurrahin'  fur 
Bill  an'  his  donkey.  But  the  storekeeper  looked  grum. 
I  got  er  lot  fur  twenty  cents  that  time,  but  he  got  more ; 
I  think  I  lost  in  the  barg'in,  but  I  won't  a-goin'  t«r 
Stan'  up  'g'inst  the  cart  an'  look  grum,  like  he  did 
'ginst  the  counter." 

When  we  reached  Pine  Log  I  thought  Bill  might  be 
inclined  to  enter  into  "er  leetle  fun,"  as  ne  termed  it, 
with  the  storekeeper  that  morning,  but  he  exclaimed: 


14  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

^'Thar's  er  gintleman's  waitin'  fur  me,  an'  I've  got 
ter  invite  my  sweetheart  ter  er  'lasses  stew  b'sides; 
hurry  up,  mister;"  and  we  soon  left. 

We  stopped  to  ask  Bill's  sweetheart  to  his  party. 
Her  home  was  a  short  distance  from  the  road,  and  1  of- 
fered to  stay  and  take  care  of  the  cart  and  donkey,  while 
he  went  to  see  her,  but  Bill  said: 

"Naw,  I  wouldn't  have  you  miss  seein'  that  gal  fur 
nuthin'." 

So  the  cart  rattled  through  the  bushes  until  it 
stopped  at  the  young  woman's  door.  The  house  was 
not  unlike  Bill's,  not  so  large,  nor  so  prettily  situated, 
but  cleaner  and  more  inviting. 

A  fresh,  beautiful,  violet-eyed,  blossom-cheeked 
mountain  maiden  of  perhaps  eighteen  summers  came  to 
the  door,  blushing,  but  a  little  bold. 

*'Mornin',  Mol,"  said  her  lover;  ''this  is  Mr. 
Ramla."  To  me,  ''This  is  my  gal,  Miss  Mol  Smith. 
What  do  you  think  o'  her?" 

This  called  for  a  knightly  remark,  which  a  little 
woman  at  home  keeps  me  in  practice  making.  Miss 
Smith's  color  deepened  at  what  I  said  regardl-ng  Bill's 
taste  and  their  future  bliss,  and  she  exclaimed  in  almost 
shrieking  tones  : 

"Bill  Collins,  I's  half  er  mind  not  ter  marry  you. 
You  tells  ever'body  in  the  country  I's  goin'  ter." 

"Thin  I  won't  tell  nobody  else.  Mol,  my  birthday 
is  ter-morrer.     Will  you  come?" 

"I  got  ter  go  ter  town  ter-morrer;  can't  come; 
mighty  sorry." 

"Does  you  go  ter  town  at  night?  I  didn't  know 
that,  Mol,  or  I'd  'a'  bin  goin'  'ith  you  all  this  time." 

"Naw,  I  goes  in  the  day.  Ain't  you  got  no  sense, 
Bill  Collins?     You  'spose  I  could  trade  't  nights?" 

"Oh,  well,  thin,  you  kin  come;  my  party's  at  night; 
I  was  born  at  night.  I'll  come  arter  you,  Mol;"  and  he 
drove  off. 

"We  goin'  ter  git  married  nex'  fall,"  he  said. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  16 

"And  where  will  you  live!"  I  asked,  remembering 
the  little  divided  room  of  such  small  capacity. 

*'I  think  we'll  live  at  her  house.  You  see  she's  the 
onliest  child;  her  dad's  bin  dead  many  er  day,  an'  she 
an'  her  mam  lives  there  all  alone;  'tain't  the  place  fur 
women  ter  be  by  theirselves,  though  ever'body  r'spects 
their  loneliness.  Thar's  plenty  o'  room  in  the  house, 
an'  on  the  farm  too,  an'  dad's  crowded  now.  Stranger, 
I  don't  b'lieve  I'll  let  Mol  work  like  mam  does,  would 
you?  Mam  gets  so  tired  some  days,  an'  sometimes  she 
wants  ter  leave  dad ;  but  he  keeps  her  down  purty  close. 
Somehow,  I  want  my  wife  ter  be  with  me  some  an'  talk 
an'  love  me.  But  'tain't  the  fashion  here.  I  dunno 
what  I'll  do." 

On  reaching  the  eminence  just  above  his  house,  we 
saw  a  woman  madly  throwing  up  her  hands,  children 
huddled  in  a  heap,  and  heard  heart-rending  shrieks. 
We  hurried  on.  The  rickety  chair  in  front  of  the  door 
had  fallen ;  pale,  and  with  agonized  expression,  the  old 
cracker  lay,  where  for  twenty-five  years  he  had  sat 
watching  his  wife  work.  The  last  watch  was  over,  and 
the  woman,  miserable  in  his  death  as  she  had  been  in 
his  life,  cried : 

"Stranger,  I  loved  him  if  he  didn't  love  me." 

Bill  shook  and  called  his  father,  then  said:  "Dad's 
dead."  Putting  his  arms  around  his  mother,  he  whis- 
pered: "Wun  more  widder  'oman,  but  her  son's  er  man 
now." 

I  picked  up  the  old  pipe  and  placed  it  in  the  dead 
cracker's  hand.     He  looked  more  natural  then. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  old  cracker  had  died  when  no  one  was  near;  a 
coroner's  jury  became  necessary.  They  wanted  to  move 
him,  but  I  told  them  the  jury  must  be  summoned  first. 
There  the  cracker  lay  in  a  horrid,  awful  heap,  with  a 
frown  that  furrowed  deep  his  brow;  and  grief  was 
loud  about  him.  We  watched;  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  watch,  and  the  scene  was  sadder  because  of  the 
helpless  watching. 

The  jury  came  and  returned  the  verdict:    "We,  the  ' 
coroner's  jury,  summoned  to  sit  over  the  body  of  James 
Collins,  do  render  the  verdict  that  he  came  to  his  death 
from  heart  disease." 

The  physician  explained  tome:  "Smoker's  heart ; 
inveterate  smoking  and  inertness."  I  asked  him  to  in- 
sert this  in  the  verdict ;  it  might  be  a  warning  to  other 
smoking  idlers.     He  did  so. 

Friends  and  relatives  collected  around  the  dead 
cracker;  and  the  house  and  yard  were  full  of  people. 
Many  a  worthier  man  has  been  laid  to  rest  with  fewer 
about  him.  Some  came  through  sympathy,  others 
through  love  of  excitement,  all  through  curiosity.  I 
proposed  to  Bill  that  I  should  go  back  to  Walesca,  but 
he  said  no,  I  must  see  the  old  man  buried. 

*'Mr.  Ramla,  we  want  ter  put  dad  'way  decent,  he 
never  did  much  fur  us,  but  he  wus  dad,  you  know,  an' 
mam  won*t  hear  ter  nothin'  buthavin'  him  buried  right. 
And  thin,  Mr.  Ramla,  dad  won't  er  mean  man;  he 
stayed 't  home  an'  let  other  folks  alone;  he  jes'  done 
nothin',  an'  made  mam  wuk  too  hard.  But  I  dunno 
what  I'll  do.  I  kin  make  er  pine  corfin,  but  that  won't 
do.  You  reckin  they'd  credit  me  an'  lemme  make  it  up 
in  splinters?" 

16 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS  17 

I  told  him  that  I  would  be  glad  to  see  that  his 
father  was  buried  decently,  to  leave  it  all  with  me,  and 
comfort  his  mother.  Slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  he 
said : 

"Stranger,  some  day  you'll  git  yer  pay.  Bill  Col- 
lins's  nothin'  but  yer  splinter  boy,  but  he'll  pay  you, 
sure." 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "remember  that,  I'll  call  on  you  for 
the  pay  soon,  but  it  will  not  be  in  money." 

.     "Ennything,  Mr.  Ramla — wuk  or  ennything  else." 
My  horse,  with  one  from  Pine  Log,  was  sent  to  Car- 
tersville.     All  night  people  came  and   went,  offering  to 
the  bereaved  family  the  most  doleful  comfort. 

"Ef  you'd  'a'  been  here  and  seed  him  die,  what  er 
comfort  it'd  a'  been,  Sister  Sal.  I  alius  wants  ter  see 
my  folks  die." 

"Ef  he'd  jes'  been  er  chirch  member,  you'd  'a' 
knowed  whar  he  is,  but  you  dunno  now." 

"Whar  you'd  be,  you  sinner,  ef  you'd  'a'  been  tuk 
off  suddint?"  someone  remarked. 

"Sister  Sal,  I  know  you'll  miss  him  sittin'  thar 
watchin'  you  plow,  but  the  ole  man'll  never  be  thar  no 
more.  I  likes  fur  my  ole  man  ter  watch  me  in  the  field ; 
I'll  wuk,  jes'  gimme  er  man.  Corn  'pears  ter  grow  bet- 
ter, an'  cotton  looks  whiter.  What  ef  he  do  beat  you 
sometimes;  you  gits  over  't." 

"Sorry  fur  you.  Sister  Sal.  Husband's  gone  for- 
evermore." 

"How  you  know  she  won't  git  another  wun!"  blur- 
ted out  a  boy. 

"Never!"  the  widow  shrieked. 

And  so  the  night  passed.  All  the  sacredness  of 
grief  was  absent;  there  was  none  of  the  quiet  mourning 
of  hearts  bowed  down  that  bespeaks  the  higher  nature ; 
all  was  uncontrollable  and  showy.  Showy  grief  is  like 
showy  dress;  both  emanate  from  low  minds. 
The  men  were  smoking.  I  said : 
"My  friends,  have  you  seen  the  verdict  of  the  cor- 
oner's jury?" 


18  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

They  had  not.     I  showed  it  to  them. 

Sickened  with  all  I  walked  out  upon  the  mountain. 
One  broad  sheet  of  silver  light  shimmered  along  its  side; 
it  was  restful  there.  I  heard  a  groan  near  by.  Here, 
too?  The  groaning  ceased,  then  began  again;  a  heavy 
step  approached.  A  sudden  fear  came  over  me  that 
maybe  I  had  come  to  the  mountain  to  meet  a  worse  fate 
than  I  had  left.  Some  of  the  crackers  had  heard  my 
offer  to  Bill  to  bury  his  father;  I  wondered  if  they 
thought  I  had  money.  The  object  was  close  to  me  ;  it 
was  a  man. 

*'Mr.  Ramla." 

"Bill,  you  frightened  me." 

We  sat  down. 

"Stranger — though  you  don't  'pear  ter  be  er 
stranger — I  don't  feel  jes'  right ;  they're  all  mournin' 
an'  groanin'  down  yonder;  dunno  why  I  don't  feel  that 
er  way.  He  wus  my  father;  I  orter,  it  seems,  but  I 
didn't  love  dad  'nough,  I  reckin.  I  thought  I  loved  him 
much's  mam  did  though  ;  don't 'pear  so  now.  What's 
the  matter  'ith  me?" 

I  talked  to  him  very  quietly ;  his  feeling  was  better 
than  that  of  the  others,  I  thought.  He  seemed  better 
satisfied  after  a  little  while,  and  went  to  his  mother.  I 
offered  him  ray  hammock,  and  quietly  beckoning  her  to 
him,  he  said: 

"Mam,  thar  ain't  no  use  o'  this." 

He  persuaded  her  to  lie  in  the  hammock,  and  threw 
himself  on  the  grass  by  her  side.  Worn  out  with  phys- 
ical effort  she  fell  asleep. 

I  heard  on  all  sides:  "How  kin  Sal  sleep!  Don't 
believe  she  keered  nothin'  fur  Jim,  nohow.  What 
scan'lous  behavior!" 

Her  sister  said;  "I'll  wake  Sal.  She  shan't  b'have 
so  indecent.^' 

I  said:  "Don't  disturb  her;"  and  they  did  not. 

The  next  morning  preparations  were  made  for  the 
interment.     The  casket  had  come.     On  its  face  were  the 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  1» 

words,  "At  Rest."  They  seemed  a  mockery.  We  bur- 
ied him  near  the  door  ;  his  wife  requested  it.  M}''  friend 
from  Walesca,  who  was  minister  as  well  as  school 
teacher,  came.  Scarcely  anything  was  said  about  the  old 
cracker;  the  Lord  was  made  prominent.  Some  friends 
thought  that  the  cracker's  virtues  should  have  been  em- 
phasized; I  thought  they  should  have  been  emphasized 
in  life. 

The  people  all  commented  on  the  fine  burial.  "Jim 
never  seed  nothin'  like  it  while  he  wus  'live.  Wonder 
ef  he'll  rest  good  in  the  corfin?  Strangers  is  good  folks 
sometimes." 

They  went  home,  and  the  place  was  as  quiet  as 
if  nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened  in  ten  years.  The 
high  physical  tension  and  the  relaxation  were  equally  in- 
tense; I  wonder  the  cracker  does  nofc  die  young. 

My  friend  and  I  talked  over  the  condition.  My  re- 
port was  encouraging,  and  we  decided  that  I  should  re- 
main among  the  people  for  a  time,  going  to  Walesca  oc- 
casionally for  relief  from  the  strain. 

Helping  the  world  is  trying  work ;  he  who  under- 
takes the  smallest  portion  of  it  finds  much  to  discourage^ 
feels  his  own  insignificance  and  need  of  help;  grows 
weary,  falls,  rises,  is  strengthened,  falls  again.  Oh  I 
the  weariness  of  trying;  and  yet  he  who  does  not  under- 
take to  bless  the  world  in  his  day  and  generation  is 
a  failure.  Be  encouraged,  laborer  for  humanity,  faint 
not. 

Day  struggles  with  the  gathering  shades  of  night. 
Great  banks  of  clouds  form  as  fortifications,  like  walls 
of  granite,  with  battlements  of  fury  and  bases  of  dark- 
ness. Battalions  march  in  line  in  their  uniforms  of  pur- 
ple and  crimson  and  blue  and  gold,  with  trimmings 
of  pink  and  silver  and  cream  and  emerald.  They  salute 
the  retiring  sun  in  his  jeweled  armor  of  light-beams, 
scintillating  in  marvelous  brightness,  and  the  battle  in 
the  clouds  begins.  Back  and  back  and  back  the  forces 
of  day  are  driven,  until  their  colors   blend  in  one  gor- 


so  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

geous,  nameless  hue.  They  yield,  salute  earth,  slowly 
retire,  and  "good-night"  is  flashed  by  a  rare  beam  upon 
the  army's  banner.  Sometimes  a  low  murmur  of  thun- 
der beats  time  for  the  march.  My  soul  catches  the  last 
faint  strain  of  the  marshal  band  of  this  strange  army  in 
the  clouds;  "Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest,"  and  in  rap- 
turous, reverent  praise  my  soul  answers,  "Amen." 

In  wonderful  peace  I  turn  from  day  to  the  hastening 
shades  of  night,  and  the  watch  of  the  evening  star.  And 
so  stars  are  born  of  struggle;  and  hope  has  the  same  par- 
entage. 

"Do  not  w^eary  in  well  doing,  for  ye  shall  reap  if  ye 
faint  not,  "  my  friend  said  when  I  told  him  that  I  was 
already  tired  of  the  work. 

"If  ye  faint  not!"  I  felt  ashamed. 

Although  I  had  been  so  discouraged  by  the  sudden 
revelation  of  the  people's  condition  at  old  James  Collins' 
funeral,  yet  when  I  thought  of  Bill  the  prospect  seemed 
encouraging.  I  thought  that  the  young  crackers  might 
be  persuaded  to  better  their  existence,  if  the  old  ones 
might  not.  In  Bill  great  lumps  of  character  lay  hidden 
and  latent,  which  a  chance  circumstance  now  and  then 
revealed  as  mighty  possibilities.  When  he  spoke  of  not 
allowing  Mol  to  work,  how  encouraged  I  had  felt!  And 
when  he  had  shown  a  quieter  spirit  than  the  rest  of  the 
crackers  after  his  father's  death,  how  hopeful  I  had 
been!  Then  the  thought  of  the  arbutus  blossom;  I 
could  not  forget  that,  with  its  happy  omen.  Bill  would 
yet  rise  to  a  higher  life,  and  with  himself  elevate 
his  companions,  and  the  foundation  of  substantial  good 
would  be  laid. 

I  asked  him  about  the  occupations  of  the  people ;  I 
knew  they  were  not  industrious  as  a  rule.  They  were 
farmers  and  gold-washers  and  saloon-keepers  and  dis- 
tillers. I  determined  to  visit  every  one  of  them  in  that 
section,  if  possible,  and  told  Bill  so.  He  could  easily  go 
with  me,  he  said.  I  thought  from  his  tone  that  he 
expected  to  have  a  good  deal  of  fun  at  my  expense,  but 
he  was  very  polite,  and  seemed  really  to  like  me. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  21 

I  waited  some  time  after  his  father's  death,  both  out 
of  respect  to  the  family  and  to  learn  more  of  the 
Collinses.  My  friend  had  said  that  they  were  a  fair 
type  of  the  cracker.  They  were  thoroughly  ignorant 
but  not  altogether  bad  people.  With  all  Bill's  boasts  of 
cheating,  I  could  not  but  believe  that  it  was  more 
for  fun  than  for  profit  that  he  practiced  it.  I  might 
have  thought  him'  a  sharp,  shrewd  rascal  but  for  his 
boasts  of  meanness.  Conceit  was  his  most  prominent 
characteristic.  He  firmly  believed  himself  the  smartest 
individual  in  his  section,  and  wanted  everyone  else 
to  think  so.  He  would  not  have  cheated,  as  he  regarded 
cheating;  his  open  way  of  exercising  his  shrewdness  re- 
lieved his  conscience  of  blame.  "Every  man  should  be 
able  to  take  care  of  his  own  affairs,"  was  his  law. 

"Ef  they  can't  help  my  cheatin'  'm,  it's  thur  look- 
out an'  not  mine,"  he  said;  "I's  lookin'  out  fur  Bill." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Bill,  I  want  to  go  to  see  some  of  your  friends.  Will 
you  take  me?"  I  asked  one  day. 

He  cheerfully  consented. 

*'My  nex'  neighbor's  er  grocery  man." 

**Then  why  don't  you  get  your  groceries  from  him 
instead  of  going  to  Pine  Log  or  Walesca?  His  place  is 
nearer,  and  you  would  not  have  trouble  with  the  store- 
keepers.    I  suppose  your  neighbor  is  your  friend?" 

"  'Course  he's  my  friend — that  is,  his  boy  is.  Me 
an'  him  wus  raised  t'  gather.  The  man  that  keeps  the 
grocery's  ole's  dad  wus.  But  you  dunno  what  you  talkin' 
'bout.  Folks  can't  drink  liquor  fur  breakf as'  dinner  an' 
supper.  They'd  be  drunk  all  the  time.  I  didn't  know 
you  'proved  of  drinkin'  'tall;  thought  you  wouldn't 
want  to  go  ter  see  er  man  that  kep'  liquor." 

"I  understood  you  to  say  a  grocery." 

*'You  understood  right.  Grocery's  er  place  whar 
folks  sells  whiskey;  thought  you  know'd  that." 

I  did  not  know  it,  but  when  I  visited  the  place  Bill's 
words  were  verified. 

On  the  way  we  talked  of  the  change  in  the  home 
life  that  his  father's  death  would  make. 

"The  craps  ain't  goin'  ter  suffer,  fur  dad  didn't 
make  'm,  an*  the  house  ain't  goin'  ter  fall  no  sooner,but 
it'll  fall  in  'bout  er  week  ef  I  don't  steady  it,  an'  t'bacco 
'11  cos'  less;  an'  what  kin  I  do  that  I  couldn't  er  done 
ef  dad  had  er  lived?" 

"There's  one  thing,  Bill.  You  spoke  of  not  allowing 
Mollie  to  work  when  you  marry.  Could  you  not  help 
your  mother  now?" 

"Bless  you,  stranger !  I  hadn't  thought  o'  that. 
You  see,  I'se  so  used  ter  seein'  mam  out  in  the  field  that 

22 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  23 

I  hadn't  somehow  thought  she  couldn't  be  thar.  I 
s'pose  I  must  wuk;  wuk's  purty  hard,  though.  You  see, 
the  steer  gits  co?itrary,an'  the  sun  gits  hot,  an'  I  gits  mad. 
I  tried  't  wun  day,  an'  I  didn't  git  over  't  fur  er  month. 
I  sed  thin  if  the  family  wanted  enny  corn  an'  cotton  an* 
sorghum,  mam'd  have  ter  raise  'm.  I  could  live  on 
blackberries  in  the  summer  an'  rabbits  in  the  winter. 
We  don't  raise  no  sorghum  now,  'caize  the  steer  ate  so 
much  wunst  that  it  died,  an'  it  cos'  like  ever'thin'  ter 
git  er 'nother  wun.  Dad  sed  'twus  sorghum;  I  think 
'twus  old  age  and  starvin'  that  kilt  the  steer.  You  see 
dad  was  'sper'mentin'  on  how  little  the  steer  could  eat, 
and  the  steer  objected  to  the  'sper'ment.  Well,  I  reckin 
I'll  have  ter  help  mam,  an'  then  Mol'll  be  better  satisfied 
ter  see  how  I's  goin'  to  treat  her.  Women's  cur'us 
folks.  Somethings  they  b'lieves 'fore  you  tell  'm,  and 
somethings  you  have  ter  prove.  I'll  plow  that  steer  ter- 
morrer." 

We  had  reached  the  neighbor's  home.  Above  the 
unpainted  door  was  the  word,  "Grocery."  Bill  walked 
in. 

"Mr.  Jones,  this  is  er  bad  mornin'  fur  customers. 
Here's  er  pro'bition  man.  Don't  offer  him  no  groceries, 
'caze  he  don't  want  none;  an'  don't  offer  me  none,  'caze 
he  won't  drink."  Turning  to  me,  he  said,  "Ain't  that 
right — never  drink  out'n  yer  f rien'  '11  drink." 

"Honor  among  thieves,  and  courtesy  among  crack- 
ers," I  thought.  Bill  prided  himself  upon  being  polite, 
and  he  was.  I  spoke  very  cordially  to  Mr.  Jones.  He 
was  grum  in  his  reply. 

"Why  do  you  call  this  a  grocery?"  I  asked. 

"  'Caze  it  means  the  same  thing  as  grog,  an'  sounds 
better.     You  must  not  have  no  larnin'." 

I  had  not  in  those  matters,  and  1  did  not  like  my 
teacher.  The  shop  was  full  of  barrels,  and  the  floor  was 
wet  with  dripping  whiskey.  The  odor  was  deadly  to  a 
man  unaccustomed  to  it.  I  wanted  to  go,  but  I  asked 
some  questions  first. 


24  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

"Does  your  business  pay?" 

"Pays  me.  Don't  reckin  it  pays  nobody  else,  'caze 
I  keeps  the  money.  But  folks  can't  keep  drunk;  the 
more  liquor  they  buy,  the  less  they  got  to  buy  with.  I 
makes 'em  pay  purty  high,  too,  don't  I  Bill?  Can't 
make  whiskey  furnothin'." 

"Do you  make  your  own  whiskey?" 

"Naw  ;  but  I  tetches  it  up  er  leetle  arter  I  gits  it — 
goes  further." 

•'How  do  you  do  that?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  it's  none  er  yer  bizness ;  guess  you  wants 
tu  larn  how,  though;  pro'bition  folks  can't  be  trusted. 
You'd  like  ter  git  into  some  o'  them  barrels  now  ef  you 
thought  you  could  do  't  'out  my  knowin'  't.  Thar's  er 
empty  wun  thar,  an'  you  kin  see  what's  in  the  bottom; 
thin  you  kin  go  down  ter  the  spring  an'  see  ef  'tainH 
agoin'  dry,  an'  you'll  know  jes'  how  the  thing's  did." 

I  went  out  to  see  the  barrel.  The  bottom  had  a  green 
circle  around  the  margin,  and  was  covered  with  a  hard, 
brown  crust.  I  succeeded  in  breaking  the  crust.  It  wa& 
four  inches  thick,  and  of  a  mean  quality  of  tobacco. 
The  green  ring  was  arsenic.  I  asked  what  he  did  with 
the  empty  barrels. 

"Use  'm  fur  this  as  long  as  they  stand;  use  ter  try 
ter  use  'm  as  washtubs  arter  that,  but  the  clothes  pizened 
me." 

This  was  the  effect  upon  the  cuticle.  What  was  the 
effect  upon  the  stomach? 

"Law,  Bill,  I  furgot  you  wuz  thar." 

"I  thought  you'd  furgot  it.  That's  the  way  you 
cheats  me,  is  it?     Very  well;   I  gits  ahead  o'  you." 

"It  won't  hurt  you.  Bill.  I  jes'  likes  ter  disgust 
pro'bition  men.  They  don't  come  ter  see  but  wunst;  I 
allurs  skeers  'm  off." 

I  told  him  that  I  was  glad  to  have  met  him,  and 
would  be  glad  to  call  again.  We  went  out .  The  man 
came  to  the  door  and  called: 

"Bill,  what'd  you  say  that  chap's  name  wus?" 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  25 

"I  didn't  say,"  replied  Bill;  and  we  walked  on. 
*'You  see,  I  didn't  tell  'im  yer  name,  'caze  it  ain't  safe 
fur  er  man  ter  come  foolin'  'round  er  grocery  er  still  'less 
he  'proves  of  the  bizness.  You  needn't  be  'fraid, though, 
I  knows  jes'  how  to  git  'long  in  this  country." 

Truly  he  did,  and  if  he  should  be  grateful  to  me 
for  any  effort  of  mine  to  raise  him  to  a  higher  plane  of 
living,  I  should  be  grateful  to  him  for  my  life  more  than 
once.  The  crackers  are  a  quiet,  harmless  people  unless 
you  antagonize  the  whiskey  traffic;  moonshiners  and 
their  confederates  are  desperate. 

"Say,  don't  yer  want  er  lot  er  fun?"  said  Bill. 
**Dad'8  so  recent  dead  I  dunno  whether  1  orter  try  't  er 
not;  but  that  won't  'sturb  dad.  I's  got  er  rooster 
what'U  fight,  an'  thar's  er  boy  down  here's  got  'nother. 
I  see  him  comin'." 

A  tall,  lank  boy  approached. 

"Bob,  this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Ramla.  He  wants  to 
see  our  chickens  fight.  I'll  bring  mine  down  this  ev- 
enin'." 

I  said  I  did  not  care  to  witness  the  chicken  fight, 
but  I  should  be  glad  to  call  on  the  young  man. 

*'Bob,  he  jes'  tole  me  'fore  you  come  'bout  the 
chicken  fight,  but  he's  modest,  an'  don't  want  ter  tell 
you.  These  folks,"  he  explained  to  me,  "  '11  think  you's 
crazy;   ever'  man  here  goes  ter  er  chicken  fight." 

We  went.     Bob  had  collected  quite  a  crowd. 

"What's  the  bet.  Bill?" 

"Chaw  'g'inst  chaw." 

"Aw!  I  got  plenty  o'  t'bacco." 

"Well,  ef  my  rooster  beats,  I'll  take  yourn ;  an'  ef 
yourn  beats,  you'll  take  mine." 

"That's  er  goner.  I  gits  er  'nother  rooster  this 
day." 

And  so  the  fight  began.  Bob's  rooster  advanced 
and  presented  his  spurs  in  quite  a  military  manner. 

"Hu !  Bob,  he  must  er  been  goin'  ter  the   college." 

"I's  the  college,"  he  said,  touching  himself  with 
pride. 


26  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CEACKERS 

"Very  well;  go  it,"  cried  Bill;  and  the  roosters 
fought. 

When  the  sight  became  sickening,  I  said : 

"Bill,  stop! — this  is  barbarous." 

His  roopter  just  then  happened  to  be  master  of  the 
fight,  and  of  course  Bill  was  willing  to  stop,  but  Bob  was 
not. 

"Let  'm  rest  er  minute,  thin,"  said  Bill. 

"All  right." 

Bill  took  his  rooster  in  his  arms,  boasted  a  good 
deal,  and  made  the  other  boy  so  mad  that  he  proposed 
to  fight. 

"Naw,  we  never  come  here  fur  that.  This  ain't  er 
feller  fight;   this  is  er  cock  fight." 

"Let  'm  fight,  thin." 

*'A11  right;    'go  it,  boots,  'ith  yer  spurs  on.'  " 

Bill's  rooster  struck  his  antagonist  a  deadly  blow 
with  a  steel  spur  that  had  not  been  noticed  before.  The 
poor  thing  reeled,  gasped,  and  died. 

"Say,  Mr.  Ramla,  is  fightin'  chickens  good  ter  eat.?" 

I  felt  perfectly  outraged  at  Bill  and  disgusted  with 
the  crackers  as  a  whole.  Bob  struck  Bill  a  hard  blow, 
and  hissed:  "You  cheated  me,"  between  his  teeth.  He 
had  been  cheated  by  the  wily  Bill,  who,  while  he  held 
the  rooster  in  his  arms,  and  busied  himself  making  his 
friend  angry,  had,  unobserved,  put  the  steel  spurs  on. 

Bill  had  been  knocked  down,  but  now  arose  with 
little  show  of  anger.  There  was  one  good  thing  about 
Bill;   he  kept  his  temper. 

"You'll  be  sorry  fur  foolin'  'ith  me  ;  I  ain't  cheated 
you ;  nothin'  warn't  said  'bout  steel  spurs  in  the  con- 
tract fur  the  rooster  fight,  an'  thar'fore  they  was  'low- 
able.     What's  ter  day?"  (to  the  crowd). 

"Friday." 

"I  has  you  before  the  jestice  ter-morrer,"  and  pick- 
ing up  the  dead  chicken  he  walked  off. 

I  felt  more  like  taking  the  next  train  for  home  than 
returning  with  Bill.     The  thought  of  having  to  appear 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  27 

in  a  justice's  court  as  a  witness  in  a  cockfight  certainly- 
lessened  me  much  in  my  own  opinion.  But  more  than 
that,  I  feared  it  would  prevent  my  gaining  an  influence 
over  the  crackers. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  entered  court, 
which  was  held  in  the  yard  of  the  justice.  Bob  was 
called  upon  to  testify  first. 

"Bob  Smith,  you  are  called  upon  to  testify  in  your 
own  behalf  against  Bill  Collins  for  cheating  in  a  rooster 
fight.  Do  you  solemnly  swear  upon  this  Holy  Book  to 
tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth?" 

"I  do.     You  see,  I  wus '' 

"Hold  on,"  exclaimed  the  magistrate;  "I'll  fine 
you   for  contempt  of  court.     I  haven't  asked  you  to 


"You  did.  You  made  me  swear  that  I'd  tell  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothin'  but  the  truth.  How 
you  'spect  me  ter  do  't  'out  speakin'?  I  can't  write." 

"I  expected  you  to  wait  until  I  called  on  you  to 
speak.     Now,  relate  the  whole  atfair." 

"Well,  I  wus  comin'  'long  home;  I'd  been  ter  town 
an'  had  er  bucket  o'  provisions." 

Justice:    "I  don't  care  what  you  had." 

Boh  :  "Oh!  I  thought  mebbe  you  did,  you  was  so 
powerful  pertic'ler  'bout  the  whole  truth.  Well,  I  wus 
walkin'  'long,  and  I  see  Bill  Collins  comin'  'ith  that 
dude  chap  over  yonder,  an'  he  ses,  'Bob,  this  's  my 
friend,  Mr. .'     What's  yer  name,  mister?" 

Justice:   "Never  mind  that  now.     Goon." 

Bob:  "That's  what  I  wus  doin'  when  you  stopped 
me.  'He  wants  ter  see  our  chickens  fight;  I'll  bring  mine 
down  this  evening.'  Say,  chap,"  addressing  me  again, 
"warn't  that  'zactly  what  he  sed?" 

Justice:    "Stop!" 

Boh:  "Yes;  but  whin  I  ses  I'll  tell  the  truth  I 
means  ter  tell  it.  What  did  you  make  me  swear  fur?  I 
ain't  goin'  ter  swear  ter  no  lie.     Now,  will  you   tell  me 


28  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKEES 

jes'  what  you  want  me  ter  do?"  folding  his  arms  and 
looking  at  the  justice. 

Justice:  "Describe  the  cockfight  and  the  manner  of 
the  cheating." 

Boh:  "Well,  you  orter  er  sed  that  at  fust.  I  kin 
'scribe  the  cockfight,  but  I  dunno  the  manner  o'  the 
cheatin',  'caze  I  didn't  see  Bill  put  the  gaffs  on,  an'  I 
dunno  how  he  done  't.     Whyn't  you  ax  him  'bout  that?" 

Justice:    "Because  you  are  testifying  now." 

Boh:  "I's  tryin'  ter,  but  you  won't  lemme.  Kin  I 
perceet/?" 

The  justice  said  nothing. 

Boh:    "Kin  I  perceetZ?" 

Justice:  "I  will  give  you  just  ten  minutes  to  tell 
the  whole  thing." 

Boh  :  "The  roosters  fit  an'  fit  an'  fit.  You  kin  tell 
how  much  by  that.  They  was  purty  tired  by  that  time, 
an'  that  feller  what  you  wouldn't  let  me  ax  his  name 
sed,  *Stop,  'twas  er  shame;'  an'  Bill  wanted  ter  stop,  but 
his  rooster  wus  on  top;  I  know'd  he  warn't  goin'  ter 
stay  thar  long;  so  I  wouldn't  give  up  the  fight.  Thin 
Bill  sed,  'Let  'm  rest  fur  er  minit;'  an'  1  let  'm  rest. 
Thin  Bill  made  me  so  mad  that  I  wanted  ter  fight,  but 
he  sed,  'This  ain't  er  feller  fight;  this  's  er  cockfight;' 
an'  thin  I  sed,  'Let  'm  fight,  thin;'  and  Bill's  old  rooster 
bit  mine  'ith  er  iron  spur,  what  he  hadn't  had  on  'fore, 
an'  my  rooster  keeled  over  an'  died.     What  time  is  it?" 

Justice:    "Five  minutes  gone." 

Bob  had  spoken  very  rapidly  after  he  had  been  lim- 
ited in  time.     He  now  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Thin  I  needn't  be  in  sich  er  hurry  'bout  the  rest, 
Arter  that  rooster  died  I — jes' — knocked — Bill — Collins 
blind." 

Justice:  "Was  there  any  agreement  beforehand  as 
to  the  steel  spur?" 

Boh:  "None  't  all.  I  thought  Bill  wus  goin'  ter 
fight  fair." 

Justice:    "That  will  do." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  29 

The  other  witnesseB  on  Bob's  side  were  called,  and 
after  much  haranguing,  dismissed. 

Bill  was  then  placed  on  the  stand.  He  took  the 
oath  and  stood  silent.     The  justice  said,  "Proceed." 

Bill:  "Well,  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  you  called  on 
me,  'caze  I  didn't  want  ter  be  fined  fur  speakin'.  I's 
sorter  like  Bob  'bout  that,  though — I  thought  we 
wus  here  ter  speak." 

He  then  related  substantially  all  that  Bob  had  relat- 
ed,  more  quietly,  however.  The  justice  asked  several 
questions : 

*'Do  you  keep  chickens  for  the  purpose  of  fight- 
ing?" 

Bill :  *'Naw ;  I  keep  er  fightin'  rooster  ter  'com'date 
Bob.  He  likes  ter  fight  chickens.  I  never  seed  much 
fun  in  't.  Reason  I  put  them  spurs  on  yistiddy  wus  ter 
stop  the  fight;  't  won't  no  pleasure  ter  me." 

Justice:  *'Do  you  know  it  is  unlawful  to  keep 
chickens  for  fighting  and  to  bet  on  them?" 

Bill:  "I  sed  I  didn't  keep  'm  fur  fightin' ;  1  keep 
'm  ter  'muse  my  friends.  The  fightin'  causes  the 
'musement;  but  that's  got  nothin'  ter  do  'ith  why  I 
keeps  'm.     Naw,  an'  I  don't  bet  on  'm." 

Justice  :   "Did  you  not  bet  on  them  yesterday?" 

Bill:  "Naw;  Bob  wanted  ter  bet,  an'  I  sed,  'Chaw 
'ginst  chaw.'  He  owed  me  er  chaw  o'  t'bacco,  an'  I 
thought  't  wus  er  good  way  ter  git  it.  But  Bob  won't 
satisfied  'ith  that;  so  I  sed,  'Chicken  'ginst  chicken.' 
That  won't  no  bettin' ;  I  didn't  have  er  dollar  ter 
stake." 

Justice:  "Was  there  anything  said  about  using 
the  steel  spurs?" 

Bill:  "Nothin' ;  tharfore  't  wus  right  to  use  'm." 

Justice:   "Allow  me  the  right  of  deciding  that." 

Bill:  "I  ain't  interferin'  'ith your  rights;  I's  sayin' 
what  I  know  's  fair." 

Justice:  "That  will  do." 

I    was    then    called     on,     and     never     before     or 


30  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

since  have  felt  so  outraged  by  the  world  and  60  in- 
dignant with  myself.  Of  all  little,  low  things,  to  be 
brought  into  a  justice's  court  about  a  chicken  fight  is 
the  most  trying.  To  this  day  T  abhor  the  sight  of 
a  game  fowl.  I  made  a  plain,  short  statement  against 
both  Bill  and  Bob,  as  the  truth  in  the  case  necepsitated. 
The  justice  fined  both  for  betting  on  fighting  chickens. 

The  boys  had  no  money,  and  I  said : 

**Boys,  if  you  will  never  engage  in  the  low  business 
of  fighting  chickens  again,  I  will  pay  for  the  entire 
thing." 

As  we  went  out  I  asked  the  justice  how  much 
he  made  by  such  practices.  The  sum  he  named  was 
a  pittance.  I  thought  his  chief  gain  was  in  the  devel- 
opment of  patience.  No  man  acquires  more  of  this  than 
a  school  teacher  and  a  justice-court  lawyer  in  the 
**back woods"  districts. 

When  we  reached  the  door  Mol  met  us.  She  had 
heard  of  her  lover's  trouble,  and  had  come  to  fight 
his  battle  if  necessary.  The  love  of  woman  in  every 
condition  is  wonderful. 


CHAPTER  V. 

I  rested  the  next  day.  The  enthusiast  rests  little, 
but  now  and  then  a  sober  thought  of  himself  comes 
to  him,  and  he  remembers  that  he  is  flesh  and  blood,  and 
not  all  enthusiasm.  The  most  intense  Enthusiast  that 
ever  blessed  the  world  took  some  earnest,  tired  laborers 
into  the  mountains  "to  rest  awhile." 

On  Pine  Log,  on  that  peaceful,  quiet  day,  I  saw 
visions  of  the  new  future  and  of  coming  human  perfec- 
tion. But  we  cannot  live  *'in  the  mountain."  The 
valley  is  as  surely  the  correlate  of  the  mountain  in  spir- 
itual life  as  it  is  in  physical  formation. 

The  day  following  I  took  up  again  the  round  of  vis- 
its. Never  did  matrimony  seem  a  greater  blessing  and 
a  more  natural  law  than  the  absence  of  it  caused  it 
to  appear  that  day. 

We  visited  first  the  home  of  a  bachelor.  In  a  typi- 
cal cracker  cabin  we  found  him  at  breakfast  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  sole  article  of  food  was 
blackberries,  served  in  a  wooden  bucket.  After  intro- 
ducing me  in  his  usual  manner,  Bill  opened  conver- 
sation. 

*'Say,  Mr.  Quinn,  don't  you  eat  nothin'  but  black- 
berries?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  lives  as  well  as  enny  man  whin  I  ain't 
got  rheumatiz  ;|I  ain't  been  able  ter  git  ter  town  ter  sell 
berries  this  week,  though ;  I's  stiff  whin  I  gits  f  rum  the 
field;  kin  hardly  git  berries  these  days.  How's  splin- 
ters 'ith  you?" 

"Veryj  good,"  answered  Bill.  "Mr.  Quinn,  pity 
you  ain't  married." 

"Married !  Ef  enny  man  wants  ter  insult  me  jes' 
31 


32  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

let  him  talk  'bout  gittin'  married.     Tell  you,  I  wouldn't 
marry  no  'oman  on  'arth.     Don't  say  no  more  'bout  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Quinn,  your  place's  all  weeds.  Corn'd 
grow  out  thar  's  well  's  jim'son  weed,  an'  ef  you  don't 
want  ter  plow  yerself,  thar's  no  reason  why  the  place 
needn't  be  cultivate'.  You  could  jes'  set  here  an'  smoke 
an'  chaw,  an'  you  could  send  ter  town  whin  you  had 
rheumatiz,  an'  have  som'thin'  fur  breakfus'  'sides  ber- 
ries. You  dunno  how  nice  it'd  be.  Better  try  't. 
Here's  Miss  Jane  an'  Miss  Betsy  an'  Miss  Ann  nex'  door. 
I's  goin'  over  thar  ter-day — might  say  som'thin'  myself 
ef  I  didn't  have  er  gal.  Want  me  ter  tell  'm  you 
comin'?" 

The  old  man  arose  with  effort,  raised  his  cane,  and 
said : 

'*Bill  Collins,  I'll  drive  you  frum  my  house  ef  you 
say  'nother  word  'bout  marryin'." 

Bill  laughed  heartily.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  mak- 
ing people  mad.  People  who  control  temper  well 
often  delight  in  such  pastime.  They  play  with  the 
world  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  helpless  mouse. 

I  was  sitting  near  the  door.  A  snake  crawled  from 
under  the  house,  trailed  its  slimy  form  across  the  path 
and  into  the  weeds,  almost  as  tall  as  the  old  man's  head. 
Bill  saw  it. 

*'Hu!  Mr.  Quinn,  you  lives  on  blackberries  and  over 
snakes.     Don't  they  pester  you  powerful?" 

"Naw;  plenty  o'  blackberries  fur  'm  ter  eat.  I 
don't  bother  them,  an'  they  don't  bother  me." 

Accustomed  to  snakes.  Wretched  state.  Along  this 
old  man's  soul  the  Serpent  had  trailed  his  slime 
many  a  day  unobserved.  What  wonder  that  the  out- 
ward form  of  a  snake  frightened  him  not? 

'*Mr.  Quinn,"  I  said,  ''you  have  a  beautiful  view 
from  your  door."  The  slopes  and  shades  were  beauti- 
ful. 

*'It  is  purty,"  he  replied.  **The  days  the  rheuma- 
tiz is  bad  I  sets  here  and  looks,  an'  somehow  the  rheu- 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  33 

matiz  gits  better.  Them  things,"  pointing  with  feeble 
:finger  to  all  that  made  the  scene  lovely,  "is  better'n 
medicine." 

I  was  half  ashamed  of  my  thought  a  moment  before. 
Here  was  a  spot  where  the  Serpent  had  not  left  his 
trail.* 

Forlorn,  desolate,  even  sad,  we  left  the  berry-gath- 
erer. We  then  followed  a  narrow  path  to  find  another 
extreme  of  single  life.  It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock, 
and  two  women  were  coming  from  the  field,  leading  two 
oxen. 

"Farm's  right  here,"  said  Bill.  "Riches'  folks  in 
this  country;  them  old  women's  got  er  bag  o' money 
buried  'round  here  somewhar  now;  ef  they  don't  mind, 
somebody'll  find  it  some  o'  these  days.  It  won't  do  ter 
let  'em  know  you  come  ter  see  'em;  they  wouldn't  let 
you  come  in.  I'll  manage  it,  though.  Miss  Jane,  we's 
'most  broke  down,  an'  'most  starved.  This  gintl'man's 
'bout  to  faint.  Wish  you'd  let  us  come  in  er  spell  an' 
rest  an'  git  dinner  with  you?" 

"Can't  you  git  home  'fore  dinner?  Well,  come  in, 
thin.     I'll  git  er  bit  extra  fur  you." 

She  turned  the  ox  into  the  yard  and  drew  a  bucket 
of  water  for  him  and  for  us,  and  taking  a  large  knife 
from  the  well  frame,  went  into  the  garden,  cut  a  head 
of  cabbage,  and  walked  into  the  kitchen.  The  other 
sister,  after  caring  for  her  ox,  came  in  to  entertain  us. 
I  asked  about  her  crops,  and  congratulated  her  upon  her 
skill  in  farming.  She  blushed ;  a  woman  can  always  be 
won  by  flattery;  but  I  was  honest  in  my  praise.  Bill 
was  a  close  observer. 

"Miss  Betsy,  I's  going  ter  be  married  nex'  fall. 
What  d'  yer  think  o'  Mol  Smith?" 

"I  think  she'll  be  er  plumb  goose  ef  she  marries 
you.  I  don't  b'lieve  in  marryin'.  Bill;  thar  ain't  no 
good  in  'it;  I  gits 'long  better'n  enny   man  I  know.     I 

*Some  one,  I  forget  who,  has  said,  'There  is  in  every  man's  soul  a  spot 
where  the  Serpent  has  not  left  his  slime." 


34  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES 

s'ports  myself  well,  but  I  ain't  goin'  ter  s'port  no 
man." 

* 'That's  right,  Miss  Betsy ;  I  don't  b'lieve  in  wimmen 
8'portin'  men.  Moll  ain't  goin'  ter  s'port  me,  but  I's 
goin'  ter  take  keer  o'  her." 

"Well,  I  never  seed  er  man  yit  that  did.  I  reckin 
you'll  be  like  all  the  rest  whin  the  time  fur  wuk  comes." 

"Well,  Mol's  goin'  ter  try  me  ennyhow.  Better  git 
married,  Miss  Betsy.  Here's  Mr.  Quinn  right  by.  He'd 
enjoy  this  place  powerful,  an'  he'd  love  you  's  good  's  I 
I  love  Mol,mebbe;  the  ole  man  ain't  never  done  nothin' ; 
take  him  an'  make  him  wuk;  it'd  be  good  fur  his  rheu-r 
matiz." 

Miss  Betsy  arose,  took  a  pistol  from  the  shelf, 
pointed  it  at  Bill  and  said : 

"No  man  speaks  ter  me  'bout  ole  Sam  Quinn." 

Bill  grew  pale  and  quiet.  The  pause  in  the  con- 
versation was  unpleasant.  Then  the  third  sister  came. 
She  had  been  to  Pine  Log.  A  basket  of  stores  was  on 
her  arm,  a  knotted  handkerchief  in  her  hand;  she  thrust 
her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket  on  seeing  us,  but  I  heard 
the  dollars  clink. 

We  went  to  dinner.  It  had  been  about  half  an  hour 
since  Miss  Jane  cut  the  cabbage.  It  was  smoking  on 
the  table  now. 

"Make  er  beginnin',"  she  said;  and  Bill  handed  me 
the  cabbage. 

I  felt  obliged  to  eat  it.  I  had  pitied  the  old  bache- 
lor and  praised  the  old  maids,  but  I  thought  blackber- 
ries were  better  for  digestion  than  half-cooked  cab- 
bage. 

Immediately  after  dinner  the  old  maids  went  to 
their  work,  and  we  were  obliged  to  leave.  I  thanked 
them  for  their  kindness  and  said  : 

"No  traveller  need  suffer  along  this  road."  I  ven- 
tured to  add  that  I  would  be  in  that  section  some  time, 
and  hoped  to  see  them  again. 

They  flushed    rather    angrily,  but    were    gracious 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  35 

enough  to  tell  me  to  call  again  when  tired  and  hungry. 
As  we  went  out  I  heard  something  fall.  It  fell  from 
Miss  Jane's  hair.  She  did  not  notice  it.  I  stooped  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  a  thorn.  I  looked  and  saw  others 
in  her  hair.  They  made  sharp  hairpins.  I  kept  the 
thorn  as  a  memento. 

The  next  day  we  visited  the  gold  washings.  The 
business  of  gold  washing  furnishes  a  support  to  a  num- 
ber of  people  in  some  sections,  though  not  many  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Pine  Log.  The  gold  is  principally  sur- 
face metal.  The  washers  go  to  the  little  creek,  wade 
in  its  shallow  water,  and  scoop  the  sand  up  in  small  ves- 
sels. They  separate  the  gold  by  washing,  and  carefully 
place  the  few  grains  in  goosequills  kept  for  the  purpose. 
They  keep  up  this  work  until  tired — never  after  that 
time ;  then  on  the  banks  of  the  little  stream  one  may  see 
half-a-dozen  crackers  lounging  and  lazily  sleeping  until 
dinner  time.  Then  they  go  home  with  their  treasure, 
eat  their  scanty  meal,  and  go  to  the  nearest  store  for 
needed  provisions  and  tobacco.  They  do  not  handle 
coin  at  all.  Their  wealth  is  in  goosequill  gold.  The 
storekeeper  wraps  the  provisions  and  tobacco,  and  they 
hand  him  the  quill.  He  pours  out  in  his  hand  as  much 
as  will  pay  for  the  purchases,  puts  this  in  a  large  bottle, 
and  when  he  has  a  sufficient  number  of  full  bottles  he 
Bends  them  to  the  mint.  We  visited  one  of  these  wash- 
ings. The  men  were  busy  separating  the  gold  from  the 
dross. 

Bill  addressed  one  of  them:  "Mister  Downy,  how 
much  gold'll  you  gimme  fur  erchaw  o'  t'bacco?  I  know 
you  ain't  got  none,  an'  it'll  save  you  the  trouble  o'  goin* 
ter  the  store." 

Mr.  Downey  stopped,  waded  to  shore,  poured  out  a 
few  grains  from  his  quill,  offered  them  to  Bill  and  asked 
for  the  tobacco. 

*'Law,  Mr.  Downey,  I's  jes' foolin'  .you;  I  ain't  had 
no  t'bacco  fur  er  week.  1  wanted  you  ter  stop  wuk, 
though,  an'  come  here  ter  talk  ter  my  friend,  Mr.  Ramla. 


86  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

You  dunno  him,  does  you?  Well,  he's  the  best  chap  in 
these  diggin's:   heap  better  talk  ter   him'n  wash  gold." 

Mr.  Downey  looked  as  if  he  did  not  think  so,  but 
came  on  shore,  threw  himself  on  the  grass,  and  said : 

"Well,  stranger,  what  yer  got  ter  say?  Can't  talk 
here  long." 

I  inquired  about  the  success  of  his  business  and  he 
showed  me  two  quills. 

"This  is  how  bizness  is  now." 

"How  much  it  that  worth?"  I  asked. 

'*'Bout  ten  pounds  o'  middlin',  sack  o'  flour,  and 
two  plugs  o'  t'bacco." 

As  I  was  not  fond  of  middling,  did  not  buy  flour  by 
the  sa(?k,  and  did  not  chew  tobacco,  his  information  was 
not  definite. 

"Do  you  work  here  every  day?"  I  asked. 

"Naw;  can'  'ford  ter  wuk  ever'  day;  gits  tired,  an' 
thin  thar  ain't  no  use  in  it.  Whin  pr'visions  gits  out  I 
comes  an'  washes  'nough  gold  ter  buy  more,  an'  thin  I 
rests  'till  they  gives  out  ag'in.  Ain't  that  the  way  you 
wuk?  You  'pears  ter  be  restin'  now  fur  er  spell.  You 
mus'  have  lots  o'  pr'visions." 

I  told  him  I  was  afraid  my  larder  was  not  full,  but 
that  I  hoped  my  family  was  not  suffering,  and  that  my 
visit  in  that  section  was  not  entirely  for  rest.  I  asked 
if  he  bad  children.  He  had  two  sons  and  five  daughters. 
I  asked  if  they  went  to  school. 

"Naw;  ain't  goin'  neither.  Boys  got  ter  go  ter 
washin'  gold  soon  's  they're  big  enough,  an'  gals  is  got 
ter  plow  an'  hoe.  Can't  'ford  ter  fool  'way  no  time; 
ain't  no  use  'n  goin'  ter  school.  I  never  been  ter  school, 
an'  I  gits  'long  's  well  as  enny  man  in  these  parts.  You 
tryin'  ter  git  er  school?" 

I  told  him  no. 

Bill  exclaimed  at  this:  "Mr.  Ramla,  you's  fooled 
me;  I  thought  that  wus  jes'  what  you  wus  arter." 

I  told  him  that  he  should  know  soon  what  I  was 
after.  Mr.  Downey  called  Bill  aside,  and  I  overheard 
him  say: 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  3T 

"Bill,  you  better  let  that  feller  alone  ;  he'll  fool  you 
woree'n  that." 

''I  dou't  know  why  he's  goin'  ter  fool  me,"  Bill 
answered;  "I  ain't  got  no  money,  an'  I  ain't  done  him 
no  harm." 

"Mark  my  word,"  Mr.  Downey  said,  with  empha- 
sis and  an  air  of  superior  knowledge  of  human  nature ; 
"I  know's  folks." 

"I  knows  'm  too,"  answered  Bill. 

I  wondered  if  I  had  made  a  mistake  in  asking  Mr. 
Downey  about  his  children's  education.  Apparently  I 
had.  But  the  subject  had  to  be  broached  some  time, 
and  I  thought  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Downey  took 
the  matter  was  perhaps  not  so  discouraging  after  all.  I 
had  expected  opposition. 

Mr.  Downey  returned  and  said:  "Mornin',  stranger; 
I  can't  waste  no  more  time.  Bill,  don't  never  stop  me 
in  my  work  ag'in  unless  you're  on  important  bizness." 

We  bade  Mr.  Downey  good  morning  and  left  for 
home. 

"Thinks  he's  so  powerful  smart,"  said  Bill; 
"wanted  me  not  ter  go  'ith  you;  he  ain't  got  no  knowl- 
edge o'  folks;  nobody  thinks  so  but  him." 

1  told  Bill  that  time  would  prove  all  men. 

Weary  in  mind,  if  not  in  body,  I  went  that  night 
upon  the  mountain.  Once  before  I  had  seen  a  strange 
object  when  I  had  taken  a  night  stroll  there.  It  was 
again  visible,  and  though  I  am  not  afraid  of  ghosts  or 
phantoms,  this  apparition  disturbed  me.  In  thought 
alone,  however;  it  never  came  near  in  person.  It  stood 
leaning  against  a  tree  some  distance  from  me,  but  when 
it  saw  that  I  had  observed  it,  quietly  walked  off,  and  I 
watched  it  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Courtship  is  everywhere  interesting,  not  les-s  so 
among  the  crackers  than  elsewhere.  Different  as  classes 
may  claim  to  be,  unlike  as  individuals  may  appear,  oppo- 
site as  characteristics  may  seem,  the  discrepancy  is  in 
method  alone.  Human  nature  is  human  everywhere. 
The  heart  has  its  cravings,  and  they  differ  in  different 
beings  only  in  the  means  of  gratification. 

The  courtship  of  the  cracker  is  not  long.  A  week 
sometimes  is  the  extent  of  it,  a  summer  season  the  usual 
time;  and  rarely  do  a  young  man's  addresses  continue 
longer  than  a  year.  The  girls  are  like  girls  in  other 
circles,  some  of  them  too  easily  pleased ;  but  if,  per- 
<;hance,  a  young  man  finds  one  who  exacts  much,  he 
makes  no  effort  to  meet  her  demands,  but  comforts  him- 
self with  the  thought  of  the  large  number  who  make  no 
demands.  Perhaps  by  the  next  Sunday  he  is  married, 
while  the  young  woman  may  never  marry.  Some  women 
are  old  maids  from  necessity,  no  doubt;  but  some  are 
old  maids  because  their  lovers  fail  to  measure  to  a  high 
standard  of  manhood.     Blessings  on  such  old  maids! 

Courtship  and  marriage,  short  and  without  love,  is 
not  peculiar  to  the  crackers.  It  is  common  because  meet- 
ing the  needs  of  common  hearts.  I  have  seen  many  cases 
of  it,  and  wish  I  had  been  satisfied  with  the  first  sight. 
But  1  have  watched  the  two  lives  as  they  have  gone  on 
even  to  the  brink  of  eternity  w^ithout  knowedge  of  a 
better  way. 

My  friend  at  Walesca  had  described  the  ordinary 
-cracker  courtship  and  marriage  to  me.  I  remember  one 
or  two  cases  he  mentioned.  He  was  talking  to  a  young 
man  about  his  prospects  in  life.     The  young  man   had 

38 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  39 

been  in  school  a  short  time,  and  my  friend  was  hopeful 
of  him.  "Well,  I's  (juit  school:  can't  come  no  longer. 
I  'spects  ter  git  married  'n  bout  er  week  an'  settle  down 
ter  housekeepin'."  My  friend  asked  whom  he  was  to 
marry.  ''Donno  yit ;  goin'  ter  see  ter-day;  want  ter 
'gage  you  ter  tie  us  up,  though;  'spect  it  '11  be  nex' 
Sunday."  "What !"  said  my  friend,  "marry  next  Sun- 
day, and  do  not  know  whom  you  are  to  marry?  My 
friend,  there  are  many  things  to  be  considered  before 
marriage.  First,  are  you  able  to  take  care  of  a  wife? 
Second,  are  you  really  in  love  with  a  certain  young 
woman?  and  is  that  young  woman  in  love  with  you? 
There  are  a  thousand  other  things  to  be  thought  of,  but 
these  are  the  most  necessary."  My  friend  was  not  a 
married  man.  "How  do  you  know?  You  ain't  married. 
'Spects  I's  got  'bout  's  much  right  ter  marry  as  you  has 
ter  keep  single.  Ef  I  finds  er  gal  ter  day  I'll  write  you, 
an'  you  be  prepared  ter  marry  us  within  er  week." 

The  next  day  the  following  characteristic  note 
reached  my  friend : 

"Found  er  gal;  be  ready  fur  us  nex'  Sunday." 

All  day  Sunday  my  friend  expected  the  couple  to 
come,  but  they  failed  to  appear.  Just  at  dusk  one  of 
the  schoolboys  told  him  that  the  young  man  was  in  the 
road  a  short  distance  from  his  house,  and  wished  to  see 
him.  He  sent  the  cracker  word  to  come  to  him, 
but  the  boy  refused,  and  my  friend  went  to  see  what  he 
wanted.  Barefooted,  and  in  his  usual  crackerish  dress, 
he  stood  in   the  middle  of  the  road,  anxiously  waiting. 

"Is  this  here  the  way  you  keep  yer  'gagements? 
Pity  the  gal  you  marries  ef  you  don't  come  ter  time  no 
better'n  you  does  ter  marry  other  folks.  Won't  'gage 
you  no  more." 

"Where  is  the  young  woman?"  was  asked. 

"She's  over  thar  in  the  bushes.  Wouldn't  do  fur 
us  ter  stand  here  together,  'caze  folks  passin'  'long 
might  'spect  what's  the  matter  an'  stop  ter  see  the  job 
well  did.     It  kin   be  well   'nough   did  without  nobody 


40  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CKACKERS 

lookin.'     I  don't  want  nobody,  an'  Becky  don't  neither. 
Come  along,  Becky." 

The  young  girl,  with  slat  bonnet,  blue  calico  dress, 
and  bare  feet,  emerged  from  the  bushes.  The  minister 
tried  to  persuade  them  to  go  to  his  house,  but  they  stub- 
bornly refused.  He  told  them  witnesses  were  necessary, 
and  with  some  difficulty  succeeded  in  persuading  them  to 
allow  him  to  go  for  two  of  the  schoolboys.  They  were 
married,  and  both  bride  and  groom  thanked  him  for  his 
services.     The  boy  said : 

"I  know'd  Becky  'd  thank  you.  She  thanked  me 
when  I  axed  her.  1  know'd  I  warn't  going  ter  have  no 
trouble.  She  wus  the  fust  gal  I  axed,  an'  she  had  me. 
But,  Fay,  thankin'  ain't  'nough  fur  you.  I  owes  you 
er  bushel  o'  taters  fur  tuition  now.  Whin  I  pays  you, 
I'll  put  in  er  gallon  more  fur  the  marriage.  Becky, 
does  you  think  you's  worth  er  gallon  o'  'taters  an'  er 
dollar  and  er  half  fur  license,   too?" 

He  looked  doubtful,  and  they  walked  oif  man  and 
wife. 

My  friend  sighed  when  he  told  me  of  this.  It  was 
pitiful  to  him.  Another  instance  I  remember  :  in  this 
case  he  persuaded  the  couple  to  be  married  in  church. 
Great  preparations  were  made.  People  assembled  from 
a  distance.  The  night  was  warm,  the  windows  of  the 
church  were  open,  and  a  puff  of  wind  blew  the  lights 
out  just  as  the  ceremony  was  nearly  over  and  the  minis- 
ter about  to  say,  "I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife.'* 
When  the  lights  were  burning  again,  the  would-be 
bride  and  groom  were  not  to  be  found.  The  minister, 
almost  angry,  after  his  effort  to  make  this  a  respectable 
marriage,  sent  a  messenger  after  the  couple  to  say  that 
they  were  not  married.  They  returned.  The  man  said 
it  was  the  last  time  he  would  be  married  in  church. 
When  the  ceremony  was  entirely  over,  he  asked:  '*l8 
we  married  now?  Well,  come  on,  Polly;  don't  reckin 
they'll  send  fur  us  this  time;"  and  they  hurried  to  the 
*  Unfair." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  41 

It  is  common  for  the  cracker  to  marry  so.  The 
young  man  buys  ten  cents'  worth  of  candy  on  Saturday, 
gets  on  an  old  gray  mule  on  Sunday,  rides  over  to  see 
the  girl,  and  spends  the  day.  They  talk  the  matter 
over,  and  under  such  circumstances  love  is  so  sweet  that 
they  decide  to  marry;  and  what  is  the  use  waiting? — 
far  better  consumate  the  affair  at  once.  So  the  wed- 
ding takes  place  the  next  Sunday,  and  the  married  life 
is  such  as  I  have  described  in  Bill's  home.  Each  gener- 
ation follows  the  example  of  the  preceding,  and  so  life 
passes. 

But  I  have  to  tell  you  of  another  courtship  among 
the  crackers  as  it  was  told  me.  The  world  records  not 
many  such  cases  in  its  annals — the  life  of  a  man  whose 
locks  have  grown  white  with  the  silver  light  of  love. 
Though  I  am  told  he  was  not  old  when  he  related  to  me 
his  story,  I  do  not  tell  you  that,  for  love  ages  sometimes 
more  than  years,  and  men's  steps  grow  unsteady  and 
their  voices  crack  because  their  hearts  beat  too  heavily. 

Bill  and  I  were  walking  on  Pine  Log  one  afternoon 
just  before  sunset;  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  grave,  and 
over  it,  looking  sadly  down,  an  old,  gray-haired  man. 
His  head  was  bare,  and  the  gray  locks  were  hardly  heavy 
enough  to  pro*;ect  it.  I  turned  in  reverence  from  the  sa- 
credness  of  another's  grief.  We  were  tired  though,  and 
Bill  proposed  to  stop.  He  spoke  to  the  old  man,  more  re- 
spectfully than  I  had  heard  him  speak  except  to  me. 
We  sat  down  on  the  moss-covered  rocks  ;  the  old  man  sat 
down  too. 

"I  comes  here  ever'  evenin',  stranger;  I's  come  fur 
twenty  year.  The  snow  is  sometimes  so  deep  that  I 
have  ter  wuk  fur  er  long  time  ter  uncover  the  grave ; 
but  I  never  leaves  it  covered  at  night,  unless  't  is  'ith 
flowers.  The  dry  leaves  fall  the  last  o'  the  year,  and  the 
mountain  's  covered,  but  the  grave  's  not.  The  wind 
sighs  'round  it;  I  can't  help  that.  The  rain  falls;  I 
can't  help  that;  but  nothin'  else  shan't  disturb  her 
rest." 


42  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKERS 

I  wondered  that  he  did  not  put  on  his  hat.  He 
saw  that  I  wondered  and  said : 

"I  never  put  it  on  here,  stranger;  jou  see,  't 
wouldn't  be  respectful-like  ter  her.  She  wus  er  good  gal. 
Did  you  never  hear  her  story?"  and  he  looked  reproach- 
fully at  Bill. 

"No,  I  never  told  him,  Mr.  Brown;  it  seemed  so 
sad-like." 

*'Yes,  it  does  seem  sad  ter  me.  You  see,  stranger,  't 
wus  this  way :  She  wus  er  purty  child,  shinin'  blue 
eyes  an'  yaller  hair ;  it  looked  like  gold  whin  the  washers 
quills  't;  face  so  white  it  looked  fur  all  the  world  like 
a  lily  what  grows  on  the  water  under  the  shade  o'  the 
wilier  trees;  her  cheeks  full  an'  round  an'  pink,  lookin' 
like  er  bunch  o'  blooms  in  the  orchid;  an'  whin  I  told 
her  so,  she  turned  her  head  like  er  fairy  and  looked  so 
tickled  kinder,  an'  show'd  teeth  whiter'n  the  snow. 
An'  I  loved  her,  stranger,  from  the  time  she  wus  er  leetle 
gal  till  now,  an'  I  loves  her  more  now  'n  I  did  thin.  I 
wus  out  gittin'  splinters  wun  day  whin  I  wus  'bout  ten 
years  old.  (I  used  ter  be  er  splinter  boy,  aa'  she  used 
ter  come  ter  pick  up  the  splinters  whin  her  mother'd  let 
her,  an'  she'd  want  ter  carry  some  ter  town  an'  sell  'm, 
too,  an'  she'd  get  mad  'caze  I  wouldn't  let  her,  but  I'd 
alius  give  her  er  penny  er  two  fur  her  help.)  That  day 
I  told  her,  'May,  does  you  know  that  me  an'  you'll  be 
grown  'fore  long?'  And  she  nodded  her  head;  an'  thin 
I  sed,  'Don't  you  think  that  you  an'  me  better  git  mar- 
ried thin.  May,  'caze  I  love  you!'  An'  she  nodded  her 
head  ag'in;  an'  I  sed,  'May,  why  don't  you  speak? 
Don't  you  love  me?'  But  she  jes'  nodded  her  head  ag'in, 
an',  as  ef  ashamed  o'  that,  run  off  in  the  woods;  an'  I 
followed  her,  an'  I  got  her  ter  talk  'bout  what  we  wus 
goin'  ter  do.  The  nex'  day  I  went  ter  town,  an'  whin  I 
come  back  May  wus  settin'  here  on  this  rock  waitin  fur 
me.  I  looked  up,  'caze  somehow  it  seemed  brighter,  an' 
I  saw  her.  She  smiled  such  a  happy  smile  it  seemed 
like  er  angel  hidin'    'round  the  bushes.      'May,'  I   sed, 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  43 

Hake  this;  don't  you  never  lose  it;  it  means  that  I's 
goin'  ter  do  all  I  told  you  yestiddy.'  It  wus  er  leetle 
ring  that  I  got  out'n  er  prize  box;  an'  thin  she  handed 
me  er  leetle  paper.  It  wus  wrapped  'round  er  t'bacco  bag 
she'd  made  out'n  blue  flannel,  but  she  sed.  'I  don't  give 
it  ter  you  ter  use,  'caze  I  don't  wan't  you  ter  smoke; 
jes'  keep  it.'  An'  I's  kept  it,  stranger,"  he  said, 
showing  me  the  little  bag,  carefully  wrapped.  He 
took  it  from  near  his  heart.  "And  she  kept  the  leetle 
ring ;  we  buried  it  'ith  her.  So  we  wus  fotehed  up 
together.  We  tried  ter  prepare  ter  marry  'fore  we 
did.  I  had  built  er  leetle  frame  house,  an'  sh« 
had  made  her  quilts,  an'  ever'thing  wus  ready,  an' 
we  wus  goin'  ter  marry  the  nex'  Wednesday.  She  was 
down  't  the  wash-place  washin'  clothes,  an'  I  come 
by  ter  tell  her  somethin'.  That's  the  sweetes'  talk  I 
€ver  had  'ith  her ;  an'  I  kissed  her,  'caze  it  wus  so  near 
the  time,  you  know,  an'  started  'cross  the  creek  on 
er  leetle  log.  The  log  wurn't  very  steddy,  an'  I  turned 
'round  ter  kiss  my  hand  ter  her,  an'  she  laughed  so 
sweet,  an'  her  cheeks  bloomed  more,  an'  thin  I  fell. 
Thar'd  jes'  been  er  rain,  an'  the  creek  wus  high,  an'  I 
couldn't  swim.  She  know'd  it,  an'  she  screamed  so  loud 
it  frightened  me  fur  her  ter  be  frightened,  an'  thin  I 
tried  ter  swim,  an'  I  sunk.  She  jumped  in  while  I  wus 
under  the  water;  I  hadn't  thought  o'  her  doing  it,  an' 
thin  I  jes'  riz  in  time  to  see  her  sink.  Some  men  come 
an'  took  me  out,  but  her  clothes  wus  heavy,  an'  kept 
her  down  too  long.  They  brought  us  ter  the  bank 
an'  laid  us  on  the  green  grass.  1  wus  strong  'nough  ter 
rally  soon,  but  May  never  wus  strong,  an'  she  jes' 
opened  her  eyes  wunst,  tried  ter  smile,  an'  sed,  'Jack,  I 
love  you ;  be  er  good  man.'  An'  I  have  tried  ter  be 
good,  stranger;  I  have,  indeed.  We  buried  her  here, 
'caze  I  know'd  she'd  want  ter  be  buried  here,  whar  I 
found  her  waitin'  that  day,  now  thirty  year  ago,  an'  I 
try  ter  keep  her  grave  as  fresh  as  she  used  ter  look. 
After  we  put  her  away,  I  went  ter  her  mother.     She 


44  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

WU8  the  onliest  leetle  one,  jes'  like  Bill's  sweetheart  is 
now,  an'  I  tuk  her  mother  ter  the  leetle  frame  house,  an* 
she's  been  thar  ever  seiice,  an'  whin  she's  able  she 
comes  here,  too.  We  of 'n  talk  o'  leetle  May,  an'  wonder 
ef  she  knows.     Stranger,  I  b'lieve  she  does." 

I  put  my  arm  around  the  old  man  as  tenderly  as  I 
could,  raised  the  other  hand  and  asked  the  Great  Sym- 
pathizer's benediction.  Somehow  my  voice  was  not 
clear,  and  I  was  glad  the  Master  hears  in  the  heart. 
The  old  man  shook  with  emotion,  as  he  had  not  done  be- 
fore, and  waved  us  to  leave  him.  We  walked  oif,  and 
when  we  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  I  looked  back. 
The  figure  was  near  the  grave ;  but  it  was  kneeling  now. 

1  told  Bill  to  go  home,  that  I  would  stay  out  a  while 
longer.  I  walked  up  and  down  the  road  perturbed  in 
spirit.  I  looked  once  more  up  to  the  spot  where  we  left 
the  old  man.  He  was  gone.  Just  where  we  had  sat 
stood  the  strange  white  figure  that  had  caused  me 
uneasiness  before.  Its  head  could  not  be  seen.  It  wore 
a  white  hood. 

I  walked  toward  Bill's  home;  this  unusual  phenom- 
enon on  the  mountain  alarmed  me.  I  heard  the  report 
of  a  pistol;  a  bullet  fell  just  in  front  of  me.  Bill  heard 
it  and  ran  to  meet  me.  I  did  not  care  to  tell  him  of  the 
apparition,  for  fear  he  would  not  go  with  me  to  many 
places  I  had  yet  to  visit.     So  I  ssid: 

*'Someone  must  be  hunting  on  the  mountain." 

*'Hu!  don't  hunt  nothin'  but  folks  'ith  er  pistol." 

When  we  reached  the  house  I  found  a  note  from  my 
friend  awaiting  me : 

*'Come  to-night;  I  need  you." 

I  saddled  my  horse ,  and  went  five  miles  across  the 
mountain  to  Waleeca  that  night. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  found  my  friend  troubled. 

"I  have  hard  work  for  you,"  he  said.  "We  must 
stop  the  liquor  traffic  here.  There  is  no  hope  for  the 
crackers  until  it  is  stopped.  These  still-men  and 
^grocery'  men  ruin  the  school.  They  come  here,  hide 
out  in  the  woods,  and  the  schoolboys  buy  whiskey  from 
them.  To-day  I  found  two  young  men  drunk,  and  half- 
a-dozen  bottles  behind  old  stumps.  I  shall  have  to  give  up 
the  school  and  not  make  another  effort  in  this  mountain 
section,  unless  something  is  done  immediately." 

He  was  despondent,  and  I  did  not  wonder;  how 
hopeless  the  work  seemed !  I  tried  to  encourage  him, 
but  he  knew  more  than  I  did,  and  had  stood  more. 

*'You  must  visit  the  blind  stills  as  soon  as  possible. 
Bill  knows  where  they  are,  and  if  you  have  gained  his 
confidence,  he  will  take  you  to  some  of  them.  Win  the 
esteem  and  affection  of  the  distillers.  Do  not  let  them 
know  that  you  know  they  are  moonshiners.  Persuade 
them  to  come  to  church,  and  it  may  be  that  we  can 
gradually  break  up  the  traffic.  I  will  try  to  interest  the 
government  more.  I  have  just  written  to  a  revenue  offi- 
cer to  come  at  once.  Old  friend,  I  hate  to  put  the  hard- 
est part  of  the  work  upon  you." 

I  thought  he  had  the  hardest  part  to  stay  quietly  in 
the  schoolroom  and  labor  day  by  day  in  the  same  way ; 
my  work  was  at  least  exciting.  But  the  labors  of  both 
seemed  slow  to  accomplish  results.  Our  hopes  were  like 
the  hopes  of  the  stream  that  in  time  only  can  wear  the 
rocks  away. 

I  returned  that  night.  The  next  morning  I  asked 
Bill  about  the  still-keepers.      He  at  first  refused  to  give 

45 


46  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

me  any  information ;  but  finally  consented  to  take  me  to 
the  home  of  one  of  them.  We  went  that  day  about  three 
miles  from  his  house,  through  the  woods  and  by  by- 
paths to  a  little  hut. 

Just  before  we  reached  it  Bill  said: 

"Now,  yonder's  the  still,  but  don't  'pear  ter  see  it, 
'caze  Nicely  may  be  thar,  an'  ef  he  sees  us  looking  our 
heads  won't  be  worth  no  more'n  the  powder  an'  shot  it'd 
take  ter  blow  'm  off.  He  don't  know  I  know  he's  got  er 
still,  or  he'd  think  nothin'  o'  buryin'  me  in  er  ditch 
down  here.  They  don't  run  the  still  in  the  day,  but 
thar's  giner'ly  somebody  'round  ter  watch  fur  the  reve- 
nue men." 

We  were  in  hunting  dress,  and  by  way  of  precau- 
tion had  killed  some  birds  on  the  way.  The  distiller 
was  sitting  in  front  of  his  door,  smoking.  His  wife  was 
in  the  garden  working. 

"That  looks  nat'ral-like,"  said  Bill;  "reminds  me 
o'  dad." 

Nicely  arose  to  meet  us.  I  saw  he  looked  uneasy, 
though  he  tried  to  appear  very  composed.  A  gun  was 
by  his  side.  Bill  told  him  we  had  been  hunting,  and  if 
he  would  allow  us,  we  would  like  to  take  dinner  with 
him.  He  had  just  been  hunting,  too,  he  said,  but  we 
saw  no  sign  of  game.  Bill  told  me  afterwards  that  Nicely 
always  carried  a  gun,  and  that  on  his  return  from  the 
still  in  the  early  morning  he  would  kill  a  rabbit  or  par- 
tridge ,  so  as  to  deceive  visitors  as  to  the  hunt.  1  no- 
ticed he  kept  his  hand  on  the  gun  all  the  time,  apparent- 
ly unconsciously  leaning  on  it.  I  was  afraid  not  to  do 
the  same  at  first,  but  when  we  went  in  to  dinner  I  put 
my  gun  down ,  determined  to  show  him  that  I  had  no 
hostile  intentions.  He  had  cleared  the  land  well,  and  a 
fine  crop  evidenced  his  prosperity.  I  congratulated  him 
upon  this  crop.     He  looked  suspicious,  but  said : 

"Yes,  the  crop's  fine  this  year;  I  raise  'nough  corn 
fur  use  an'  er  bushel  or  two  ter  sell.  It's  not  as  much 
trouble  ter  wuk    as  cotton,   an'  grows  better  here.      I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  47 

have  er  big  orchid  back  here,  too,  (pointing  back  of  the 
house),  an'  we  live  purty  well  on  the  profit  o'  corn  an* 
fruit  an'  on  the  game  1  kill." 

This  was  doubtless  true,  as  distilling  corn  and  fruit 
is  a  money-making  business.  I  asked  him  where  he  sold 
his  crops.  He  answered  in  Atlanta.  Many  of  che  farm- 
ers of  that  section  carry  their  crops  and  small  barter  for- 
ty miles  to  Atlanta.  I  asked  him  if  he  worked  his  farm 
alone. 

*'Naw ;  Belle  an'  my  son  Jim  does  mos'  o'  the  work. 
I  oversees  the  bizness." 

Jim,  I  supposed,  was  then  at  the  still.  He  inquired 
who  I  was,  where  I  lived,  and  what  was  my  business  in 
that  section. 

Bill  said:  "Law,  Mr.  Nicely,  didn't  I  introduce 
you?  'Scuse  me ;   I  was  so  tired  I  clear  forgot  it." 

He  then  introduced  me,  mispronouncing  my  name, 
and  continued: 

"He's  from  the  city,  an'  he's  been  huntin'  an' 
fishin' ;  he's  been  stayin'  'ith  me  fur  the  las'  two 
months." 

We  left  soon  after  dinner,  and  as  we  walked  off  Bill 
said  to  me : 

"We'll  have  ter  hunt  like  good  fellows  now,  an' 
don't  you  say  er  word  'bout  the  still.  Jes'  talk  'bout 
how  nice  Mr.  Nicely  is,  an'  what  er  good  farmer." 

We  hunted  in  earnest,  and  I  enjoyed  the  sport.  I 
looked  back  once,  and  saw  the  still-keeper  stealthily  fol- 
lowing us.  Bent  double,  with  gun  lowered  he  was 
creeping  through  the  bushes.  We  hunted  all  the  way 
home,  and  all  the  way  the  moonshiner  followed  us.  I 
saw  him  not  twenty  yards  from  Bill's  door  when  we  en- 
tered it. 

I  thanked  Bill  for  his  admirable  guardianship 
through  the  perils  of  the  day,  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
risk  as  much  again  ;  that  I  must  visit  the  homes  of  other 
still- keepers,  and,  if  possible,   a  still  itself. 

" 'Twon't  do  ter  go  no  more  fur    er    month    now. 


48  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

Give  'm  time  ter  find  out   all    about  you,    an'   that  you 
ain't  er  revenue  man." 

During  the  next  month  I  continued  my  visits  through 
the  neighborhood,  making  friends  where  I  could  and 
clinching  the  friendship  by  some  slight  kindness.  I  met 
Nicely  more  than  once.  1  was  glad  to  meet  him, hoping 
to  make  an  impression  for  good  upon  him,  though  I  was 
confident  he  was  following  me  for  no  good  purpose. 
Truly,  a  life  of  sin  is  an  unhappy  life.  Men  become 
suspicious,  and  every  movement  is  nervous  and  uneasy. 
I  went  on  the  mountain  many  times  in  spite  of  the 
apparition  there.  I  saw  it  often,  but  it  never  sought  to 
disturb  me  or  seemed  hostile  after  that  one  shot  on  the 
day  that  the  old  man  told  his  story.  I  wondered  if  it 
was  a  moonshiner^  I  began  to  think  again  of  visiting 
the  moonshiners,  and  I  determined  to  go  to  a  still,  that 
I  might  learn  all  about  the  life  of  these  people. 

Bill  said:  '*A11  right;  we'll  go  'possum  huntin'  to- 
night, and  go  by  Plunket's  still,  'bout  four  miles  from 
here.  You'd  better  carry  er  pistol  an'  plenty  o'  cart- 
ridges, an'  ef  they  gits  arter  us  an'  we  have  ter  run,  no 
matter  'bout  gittin'  separated,  jes'  go  fur  home  's  fas'  's 
you  kin;  but  hide  somewhar  near;  don't  go  ter  the 
house  'fore  day,  or  they'll  git  you  sure." 

We  started  about  eleven  o'clock,caught  an  opossum, 
which  Bill  carried ,  and  then  went  to  the  still.  The 
moonshiners  were  at  work,  and  there  seemed  to  be  many 
of  them.  Evidently  their  work  that  night  was  something 
besides  distilling.  They  seemed  to  be  holding  a  confer- 
ence. We  heard  many  voices  in  subdued  tones,  dis- 
cussing the  probability  of  the  revenue  officer's  coming 
in  a  day  or  two.  They  had  heard  in  some  way  that  he 
was  coming.  The  oaths  were  fearful.  I  have  never 
anywhere  else  heard  such. 
"Bill,  this  is  dreadful." 

"Hush!"  he  said,  "they're  talkin'  'bout  you." 
"I  believe  this  man  that's  pokin'  'round  the    coun- 
try here  'ith  Bill  Collins  's  er   revenue  man;  looks   like 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CllACKERS  49 

'*I  think  so,  too;  an'  I  think  we'd  better  git  rid  of 
him." 

"Be  quiet  fur  yer  life,"  said  Bill  to  me. 
Then  came  a  familiar  voice  from  the  still.     Nicely 
spoke : 

"Well,  you  fellers,  I  guess,  don't  know  's  much 
^bout  that  man  's  I  do.  He  came  ter  my  house  'ith  Bill 
Oollins  'bout  er  month  ago,  an'  I  thought  fur  certain  he 
wuz  er  revenue  man.  I  followed  him  home  that  day, an' 
I've  watched  him  ever  sence ;  met  him  all  'round  the 
neighborhood,  an'  he  ain't  no  revenue  man;  I  know  he 
ain't.  I  dunno  what  he's  here  fur.  He  says  'tis  ter 
hunt,  but  I  think  'tis  ter  do  good.  I  ain't  seed  him  do 
nothin'  else.  He  nurses  sick  folks,  an'  gives  money  ter 
poor  folks,  an'  sech  's  that.  He's  er  likely  feller  ter 
talk  ter  too.     I  wish  he'd  come  ter  see  me  ag'in." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  was  ever  grateful  for  flattery. 
"Well,  we'll   let  him  alone,   ef  you  say    so,"   some 
one  replied. 

"I  think  you'd  better,"  replied  Nicely. 
Then,  as  near  as  we  could  gath3r,  they  seemed  to 
be  planning  to  take  the  officer's  life.  When  the  confer- 
ence seemed  about  to  close,  we  left  as  quietly  as  we  had 
come.  I  had  not  been  in  the  still,  and  though  my  peri- 
lous visit  may  have  seemed  useless,  I  learned  more  of  the 
desperate  life  of  the  moonshiner  that  night  than  I  could 
have  learned  in  a  lifetime  without  it.  The  very  perils  I 
passed  through  impressed  me  more  than  any  surmise 
could  have  done  with  the  depravity  and  desperation  of 
these  people ;  a  highway  robber  is  not  more  desperate 
than  a  moonshiner. 

We  reached  home  just  as  the  gray  sky  presaged  the 
morning.  We  had  not  left  the  still  too  soon,  for  the 
moonshiners'  voices  were  heard  not  far  behind  us.  I 
threw  myself  in  my  hammock  and  fell  asleep, despite  the 
excitement  of  the  night. 

The  revenue  officer  was  coming  that  day,  my  friend 
told  me  when  I  went  to  Walesca.  I  stayed  and  told  the 
officer  of  his  danger. 


50  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  laughed;  "I  amused  to 
the  plots  of  the  moonshiners.  Three  times  before  my  life 
has  been  plotted  against,  and  it  is  always  in  danger. 
Your  information  will  be  very  helpful  to  me,  however.'* 

He  telegraphed  immediately  for  three  other  officers 
to  come  and  accompany  him  on  his  visit  to  the  stills. 

I  said:  "If  possible,  have  no  trouble  with  the 
moonshiner.  Nicely;"  and  he  promised  as  much  clem- 
ency as  the  law  allowed. 

The  other  officers  came,  and  the  four  started  out  to- 
gether. I  felt  anxious  all  day  and  stayed  with  my  friend 
awaiting  the  men  who  possibly  never  would  return. 
Just  at  morning  on  the  next  day,  two  days  from  the 
time  I  had  visited  the  still,  they  came.  One  was 
wounded,  and  stayed  with  us ;  the  other  three  went  to 
Atlanta  with  five  moonshiners  as  prisoners.  Another 
moonshiner  had  been  badly  wounded  but  had  escaped. 
One  had  been  killed.     Nicely  had  escaped  unhurt. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I  questioned  the  wounded  officer  as  to  their  experi- 
ence, and  he  related  it  as  follows  : 

"We  reached  the  section  of  the  stills  about  ten 
o'clock  last  night.  Every  still  was  deserted.  We  went 
to  the  homes  of  the  moonshiners,  but  no  one  but  their 
wives  and  children  were  there,  and  we  rode  from  the 
last  place  without  having  seen  a  moonshiner.  Riding 
towards  Cartersville,  where  we  had  decided  to  stay  un- 
til the  next  night,  and  then  surprise  the  distillers,  we 
heard  voices  in  the  woods  to  the  right  of  the  road.  The 
thought  immediately  came  to  me  that  they  had  expected 
us  to  come  from  Cartersville,  and  intended  waylaying  us 
before  we  could  reach  the  stills.  We  had,  however, 
come  the  other  way  from  Walesca.  We  listened  a  mo- 
ment. One  man  said:  "The  revenue  men  won't  git 
here  ter-night.  Let's  rest  er  bit  and  go  home. 
We'll  try  'm  on  the  Warleeky  road  ter-morrow 
night.  Guess  they'll  be  thar  by  thin."  We  waited 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  surprised  them.  Riding 
quickly  up,  we  put  handcuffs  on  two  before  any 
of  them  awoke.  There  were  eight  in  the  party.  They 
fought  like  tigers  when  awakened,  and  we  did  too.  We 
killed  one.  With  an  oath  he  said,  in  dying:  'We  in- 
tended ter  kill  you  ter-night.'  Then  the  firing  became 
desperate.  Two  men  ran.  We  wounded  one  of  them, 
but  could  not  follow.  He  made  good  his  escape.  They 
missed  fire  at  every  shot  except  the  one  that  wounded 
me.  I  manacled  one  while  he  was  loading  his  pistol. 
One  of  my  companions  did  another  the  same  way.  The 
ammunition  of  the  remaining  three  gave  out,  and  they 
started  to  run,  but  we  took  them  all.     One  of  the  moon- 

51 


52  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

shiners  who  escaped  was  Nicely,  the  other  was  the  des- 
perado of  the  mountains,  McCabe.  They  saw  that  we 
must  overpower  them  by  force  of  arms,  though  they 
outnumbered  us.  McCabe  ran,  and  I  shot  him.  He 
stopped,  and  above  the  firing  and  the  storm  of  curses,  I 
heard  him  swear  that  with  the  same  bullet  that  I  had 
wounded  him  he  would  kill  me.  The  two  moonshiners 
whom  we  first  manacled  of  course  fled,  but  they  were 
helpless,  and  were  easily  retaisen.  They  were  brought 
in  this  morning.  As  we  came  to  Walesca  to-day  I  saw 
posted  on  a  tree  this  notice:  'I  have  tuk  out  the  ball. 
Some  day  it  will  cost  the  revenue  officer  w^ho  shot  me, 
his  life. — McCabe.'  He  was  then  in  the  mountains, 
past  arrest.  There  is  scarcely  an  officer  in  the  state  who 
w^ill  attempt  to  take  him.  He  has  killed  two  revenue 
men  already." 

I  was  told  afterwards  that  this  man  was  the  best  and 
the  bravest  revenue  officer  in  the  state,  and  really  the 
only  one  that  would  attack  McCabe. 

I  asked  him  what  would  be  done  with^the  moonshin- 
ers who  were  taken  to  Atlanta.  He  replied  that  men 
who  run  blind  stills  are  usually  only  fined,  but  that 
theFe  would  be  tried  for  attempt  to  murder  revenue  of- 
ficers. I  asked  if  I  would  have  to  testify  as  to  the  plot. 
I  really  had  only  heard  enough  to  know  that  some  kind 
of  a  plot  was  on  foot.  My  information  could  not  be 
positive.  He  answered  that  he  supposed  I  would  have 
to  appear  at  any  rate.  I  was  disheartened  at  the  pros- 
pect of  my  hope  of  helping  the  cracker  being  entirely 
dissipated.  I  told  the  officer  that  I  would  not  evade  the 
summons  of  the  law,  but  that  if  I  should  be^subpoenaed 
to  appear  in  court  to  testify  as  to  the  plot,^it^would  cer- 
tainly destroy  the  little  influence  I  then  had  with  the 
crackers,  and  interfere  materially  with  [the^efforts  and 
influence  of  my  friend's  school,  and  possibly  cost  my 
life.  He  said  that,  if  there  should  be  sufficient  evidence 
without  mine,  he  would  ask  that  I  be  relieved  from  tes- 
tifying. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  53 

As  soon  as  he  was  well  enough  to  return  to  Atlanta 
the  case  was  called,  and  Bill  Collins  and  I  were  sub- 
poenaed as  witnesses.  We  went,  of  course,  but  the  rev- 
enue officer  had  arranged  to  have  us  examined  privately 
at  a  conference  of  lawyers  first:  and  this  conference,  in 
consideration  of  there  being  sufficient  evidence  without 
ours,  and  out  of  respect  for  the  cause  I  was  laboring  in 
and  the  aid  that  Christian  work  in  the  section  of  the 
stills  would  be  to  the  United  States,  excused  us.  We 
returned  without  the  moonshiners  having  any  knowledge 
of  our  having  been  summoned. 

The  case  was  tried,  the  verdict  was  guilty. 

Some  years  afterward  my  friend  was  sent  for  to  see 
Nicely  die.  He  repented  at  the  last,  and  said  he  would 
be  willing  to  meet  the  fate  of  his  fellows  if  he  should 
live  to  give  himself  up  to  justice,  but  he  died  at  home, 
repentant,  and  my  friend  hoped,  saved.  It  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  thoughts  of  my  life  that  he  said  at  the  last  that 
the  watch  he  kept  over  me  for  so  long  had  been  a  bless- 
ing to  him.  Nicely's  widow  lives  with  her  son  at  the 
same  place  where  Bill  and  I  found  them.  The  corn  and 
the  fruit  jet  testify  to  their  prosperity,  but  the  distill- 
ery no  longer  stands. 

The  morning  after  our  visit  to  the  stills,  BilPs 
sweetheart  came  to  his  home.  She  had  seen  us  and  the 
moonshiners  pass,  and  suspected  where  we  had  been. 
Mol  came  to  the  door,  called  Bill  out,  and  I  heard  her 
say: 

"Look  here.  Bill  Collins,  ef  you  'spects  ter  marry 
me,  I  want  yer  to  stop  goin'  whar  you'll  git  murdered. 
I  don't  want  no  moonshiners  comin'  'round  an'  swingin* 
my  sweetheart  up  ter  er  tree.  I  know  jes'  whar  you 
wus  las'  night.  You  dares  too  much  now,  an'  that  man 
what's  takin'  you  'round  the  country  's  got  no  bizness 
takin'  you  in  dang'rous  places.  He  ain't  goin'  ter  keep 
nobody  from  killin'  you.  What  ef  he  did  buy  er  corfin 
fur  yer  dad?  He  may  buy  wun  fur  you,  too;  but  you 
won't  'preciate  it  much  then.'* 


U  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'No,  Mol,  I'll  'preciate  it  now,  'case  I  know  he'll 
do  that  or  ennythin'  else  fur  me,  an'  I'll  do  ennythin' 
fur  him.  You  dunno  what  you're  talkin'  'bout.  We 
went  'possum  huntin'  last  night.  You  see  this?"  show- 
ing her  the  opossum  which  we  had  really  brought  home. 
** J  caught  him;  bring  you  er  piece  ter-day.  And  you 
thought  I  went  ter  er  blind  still.?  You  know  I  don't 
drink,  Mol.     What  makes  you  think  I  went  thar?" 

**  'Caze  I  seed  you  pass  this  mornin'  'fore  day,  an' 
right  arter  you  passed  I  seed  half-er-dozen  moonshiners 
come  Btragglin'  'long.  They  had  bags,  too,  jes'  like 
they'd  been'possum  huntin'.     I  b'lieve  you  did  go." 

*'Then,  mebbe  you  thinks  I  keep's  er  still.  Say, 
Mol,  ef  you  wus  ter  see  me  pass  along  ter-morrow  morn- 
in' 'bout  day,  an'  in  about  half  er  hour  you  wus  ter  see 
«r  cyclone  breezin'  by,  would  you  think  I'd  been  ter  the 
beginnin'  o'  that  cyclone?" 

''Naw,  Bill,  you  know  I'se  got  sense." 

*'Jes'  as  much  reason  in  your  b'lieven'  that  's  I 
went  ter  the  still.  You  got  sense  'bout  ever'thin'  but 
me.  Say,  Mol,  is  you  goin'  ter  be  that  way  when  we's 
married?" 

She  burst  into  tears.  *'Bill,  you  knows  I  wus  jes' 
lookin'  out  fur  yer  safety." 

"I  knows  it,  Mol,  an'  I  knows  you's  the  bes'  gal  in 
the  world.  Now,  don't  cry.  I'll  say  you've  got  more 
sense  'bout  me  'n  ennythin'  else  ef  you  won't  cry.  Mol, 
you  know  I  loves  you,  and  that's  better'n  all  my  teasin'. 
Forgive  me,  Mol,  an'  I  won't  fret  you  no  more." 

I  was  in  my  hammock;  Mol's  coming  had  awakened 
me,  and  I  had  to  lie  still  to  keep  from  disturbing  them. 
Bill,  in  all  he  said,  had  not  revealed  the  fact  that  he  had 
really  been  to  the  still.  He  thought  it  best  not  to  reveal 
it.  Women  tell  everything  to  their  sweethearts;  men 
seldom  tell  dangerous  facts  to  any  one,  even  to  their 
wives;  but  then  men  are  not  burdened  with  dangeroua 
knowledge  as  women  are,  and  it  is  no  relief  to  them  to 
tell  it.     They  believe  that  it  is  best  for  them  not  to  tell. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  56 

Men  tell  their  troubles  only  to  obtain  help.  Women  tell 
theirs  to  receive  sympathy.  And  then  there  is  a  feeling 
with  a  woman  that  she  is  sacredly  bound  to  tell  her 
sweetheart  everything.  Is  it  that  she  feels  the  sacred 
nees  of  an  engagement  more  than  a  man?  However  it 
be,  Bill  was  wise  in  telling  no  one  of  our  going  to 
the  still.  He  had  really  not  neglected  Mol,  but  he  had 
not  gone  to  see  her  as  often  lately  as  she  possibly  ex- 
pected him.  I  felt  partly  responsible  for  this;  he  had 
been  with  me  a  great  deal,  and  I  did  not  want  the  girl 
to  feel  that  I  had  taken  her  beau  from  her.  So  after  I 
heard  Bill  say:  "Mol,  I'd  go  home  with  you,  but  I's 
goin'  ter  bring  you  some  'possum  fur  dinner,  an'  your 
mother  won't  lemme  come  twice  in  one  day,"  I  arose,  fol- 
lowed her  rapidly,  and  went  home  with  her  myself. 

"Miss  Mollie,"  I  said,  "you  must  not  think  that  I 
am  keeping  Bill  with  me  too  much.  He  is  helping  me 
in  a  great  work,  that  I  will  tell  you  of  soon."  I  asked 
her  pardon  for  saying  that  T  thought  Bill  loved  her  very 
tenderly. 

She  seemed  to  appreciate  my  thought  of  her,  and 
my  conscience  felt  relieved. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Ramla,"  she  said,  "I  bet  Bill's  clear  for- 
got ter  tell  you  that  er  man  come  here  the  other  night 
an'  axed  mam  an'  me  'bout  you,  an'  what  you  wus  here 
fur.  He  wouldn't  come  in,  though,  an'  I  didn't  know 
who  he  was ;  he  'peared  mighty  interested  an'  I  don't 
'spect  he  meaned  you  no  good." 

I  asked  his  height.  He  was  very  tall.  The  appa- 
rition was  also  very  tall.  Was  this  incubus  to  oppress 
me  always? 

I  took  my  usual  walks  on  the  mountain,  and  seldom 
went  without  seeing  it.  I  wondered  if  it  could  be  the 
desperado,  McCabe.  I  spoke  to  my  friend  about  it.  He 
only  laughed  and  said  a  man  who  would  visit  a  blind 
still  should  not  be  afraid  of  ghosts. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said,  "and  gloomy  when  you  go 
on  the  mountain,    and   the   shadows   mingle  with  your 


56  DOWN   AMONG   THB  CBACKEES 

gloomy  thoughts,  and  form  strange  images.  It  is  the 
ghost  of  the  day's  difficulties  and  discouragements." 

*'But  the  pistol  shot?"  I  said. 

"Some  one  shooting  at  a  mark." 

"Then  the  mark  was  very  near  me." 

*'0r,"  he  added,  "some  cracker  boy  trying  to  fright- 
en you.  The  crackers  delight  in  such  sport,  without 
meaning  the  least  real  harm.  They  are  happy  when  they 
can  make  some  one  else  uncomfortable.  It  is  a  species 
of  conceit;  they  are  gratified  when  they  are  the  means 
of  accomplishing  anything  that  is  not  actually  wrong." 

I  knew  this  was  true,  and  felt  better  satisfied  about 
the  appearance  on  the  mountain.  But  what  of  the  man 
I  had  seen  several  times  following  me?  I  had  never 
been  able  to  see  his  face.       He  never  came  near  enough. 

"Once  since  McCabe  fled  I  have  seen  this  strange 
man  following  me,"  I  said. 

"Then  it  is  not  McCabe,"  said  my  friend.  "He 
would  be  afraid  to  appear  anywhere  in  this  country;" 
and  he  changed  the  subject. 

I  thought  my  friend  was  a  little  disgusted  with  me, 
but  I  found  later  that  he  was  very  anxious  about  my 
safety,  but  wisely  tried  to  reassure  me. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

One  Saturday  when  I  was  thoroughly  worn  out  with 
work  and  worry,  I  told  Bill  that  I  would  go  to  Walesca 
to  spend  the  day. 

He  said:  "I'm  glad  you  don't  want  ter  go  nowhar 
else;  thar's  'zaetly  whar  I  wants  ter  go.  Ain't  been  ter 
Warlesky  in  er  long  time  on  Sat'day,  an'  I's  goin'  ter 
have  er  good  time  thar  in  the  store  this  day." 

I  asked  what  would  constitute  the  good  time. 

"Oh,  jes'  foolin'  the  store  people  and  the  boys 
'round  thar.  Them  schoolboys  thinks  I'm  the  greates' 
man  in  these  parts.  I  can't  say  so  much  fur  them. 
They  ain't  got  much  senye.  Say,  you  jes'  come  in  the 
store  ter-day  an'  see  me  down  'm." 

I  told  him  that  I  was  not  well,  and  thought  I  had 
better  rest. 

"Ain't  laughin'  's  good  's  res'?  You'd  laugh  'til 
you'd  furgit  you  was  tired." 

We  went,  I  to  my  friend's  house,  and  Bill  to  the 
store.  My  friend  was  not  at  home,  so  after  a  half  hour's 
rest  I  went  to  the  store  to  be  refreshed  by  the  cracker 
wit.  The  merry  laughter  of  the  schoolboys  could  be 
heard  some  time  before  I  reached  the  store.  Lounging 
about  the  town  was  a  great  fault  with  them  for  a  long 
while ;  it  was  impossible  to  make  strict  laws  in  the 
school  in  its  first  years. 

When  I  went  into  the  store  Bill  was  sitting  on 
a  goods  box,  and  the  boys  were  congregated  around  him 
in  every  shape  in  which  merriment  seeks  expression.  He 
folded  his  arms  as  I  entered,  straightened  himself, 
and  was  perfectly  silent.  The  boys  tried  to  get  him  to 
speak.  He  would  not  say  a  woid.  They  insisted  upon 
knowing  the  reason  of  his  sudden  silence. 

57 


58  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

**  'Caze  I's  got  r'spect  fur  folk's  feelin's.  Mr.  Ram- 
la  tole  me  jes'  'fore  we  come  that  he  didn't  want  ter 
hear  no  laughin' ;  he  wanted  ter  rest  ter-day.  T  thought 
laughin'  'd  be  the  same  's  res',  but  he  didn't  think  so, 
so  I  considers  his  feelin's.  Y'awl  ain't  got  no  'sid'ra- 
tion  fur  folks." 

I  told  him  not  to  let  my  presence  interfere  with 
their  pleasure,  that  I  should  not  stay  long. 

"All  right;  I'll  perceed.  B'lieve  I  wus  tellin'  you 
'bout  my  fust  courtship.  Well,  I  wanted  ter  go  ter  see 
the  gal;  she'd  done  sent  me  word  fifty  times  ter  come. 
So  I  sold  splinters  an'  bought  pep'mint  candy  ter  take 
ter  her,  an'  rid  my  donkey  over  thar  'bout  five  miles. 
The  gal  didn't  know  I  wus  comin' ,  so  she  warn't  ready 
fur  me.  She  was  in  the  garden;  I  seed  her  fly  'round 
the  house  in  her  old  ragged  skirt;  her  hair  wus  tangled 
an'  I  dunno  how  she  ever  got  it  loose;  but  arter  er 
while  she  come  out  in  er  red  calico  frock,  blue  rib- 
bons a  streamin',  an'  her  hair  flowin'  'round  like  high 
water,  kinder  unsettled  like,  an'  standin'  out  like  er 
haystack  arter  the  wind's  done  twisted  it  'round.  'I's 
so  glad  ter  see  you,  Mr.  Collins'  (I  won't  more'n  'bout 
fourteen;)  'I's  looked  fur  you  all  this  summer.  I's 
sorry  you  couldn't  git  here  sooner.'  1  told  her  I'd  been 
tryin'  ter  come  harder'n  than  I  tried  ter  trade  donkeys 
when  I  had  wun  that  wouldn't  wuk.  It  warn't  so;  I 
never  tried  't  all ;  come  jes'  's  soon  's  I  wanted  ter.  'Oh  ! 
I's  so  glad  you  thinks  so  much  o'  me.  I  alius  liked  you, 
Mr.  Collins.  I  said  ter  mam  jes'  the  other  day,  'Bill 
Collins  's  the  bestest  boy  in  these  parts."  '  I  know'd 
that  b'fore,  an'  she  thought  she  wus  tellin'  me  er  power- 
ful piece  o'  news.  'Thin  I  ses  ter  mam,  too,  "Mam, 
he'd  make  er  good  husband."  Thin  mam  sed,  "Ax  him 
over."     I's  60  glad  you's  come,  Mr.  Bill.'  " 

"I  suppose  you  gave  her  the  peppermint  candy  about 
that  time?"  said  one  of  the  boys. 

"Naw,  sir;  couldn't  'ford  ter  waste  pep'mint  candy ; 
cost  too  meny  splinters — 'bout  two  splinters   er  stick. 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  59 

That  gal  wus  too  anxious.  Did  you  ever  go  in  the  or- 
chid arter  apples,  an'  hear  'm  drap,  drap,  an'  think  you 
warn't  a-goin'  ter  have  the  trouble  ter  shake  the  tree? 
Jes'  pick  up  wun,  an'  you'll  git  fooled.  The  apple 
what  ain't  strong  'nough  ter  stay  on  the  tree  till  you 
shake  it,  ain't  the  apple  fur  m^^.  Same  way  with  gal^. 
But  I  thought  I'd  have  er  leetle  fun  ennyhow,  bein'  's 
how  I'd  come  so  fur.  You  know  thar's  er  big  oak  tree 
down  here  er  piece  what  the  lightnin'  struck  an'* 
knocked  in  ten  hundred  pieces.  I  wish  it  had  er  been 
pine;  it  'd  made  fine  splinters  fur  me.  Well,  I  tole  that 
gal  how  I  loved  her  harder  'n  the  lightnin'  struck  that 
tree,  an'  she  sed,  'Why,  darlin'  Bill,  how  you  do  talk. 
How  would  you  prove  that?'  I  proved  it  in  the  usual 
way,  an'  she  said,  'The  tree  certainly  must  'a  felt  com- 
fort'ble  like  whin  the  lightning  struck  it.'  " 

A  peal  of  laughter  here  drowned  every  other  sound. 
Bill  did  not  even  smile,  but  he  spoke  to  the  storekeeper 
and  quietly  sprinkled  something  out  of  a  small  jar  on  the 
counter. 

"Well,  Bill,"  the  boys  began,  "tell  us  about  your 
next  courtship." 

"Oh,  yes;  it  wus  that  same  day.  I  lef  soon  arter 
dinner,  an'  tole  that  gal  I'd  come  the  next  Sunday  an' 
we'd  fix  the  day.  I  went  like  I  tole  her,  an'  jes'  rid  up 
ter  the  gate  an'  called  her  out  an'  I  sed,  'Now,  you  know 
we  must  agree  on  the  day,  can't  marry  'less  both  par- 
ties is  agreed  as  ter  the  time.  The  only  time  that'll 
suit  me  is  the  day  arter  my  third  wife  dies;  couldn't  be 
no  sooner  'n  that,  'caze  the  other  gals  would  object.' 
Thin  I  rode  off  fast  ter  keep  her  frum  throwin'  er  brick 
at  me,  an'  called  back,  'Does  that  suit  you?'  I  didn't 
hear  what  she  sed.  Well,  the  same  evenin'  what  I 
promised  that  gal  ter  come  back  an'  name  the  day  I 
went  ter  see  'nother  wun.  Warn't  nobody  at  home  but 
her.  She  wus  sorter  shy-like,  an'  I  thought  she  wus 
the  gal.  I  felt  in  my  pocket  fur  the  candy,  but  some- 
how it  didn't  feel  right.     I  tuk  it  out,  an'  it  had  broke 


60  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

into  half-inch  pieces,  knocking  'ginst  the  saddle ;  an' 
like  it  wus  'shamed  o'  breakin',  it  had  all  tried  ter  git 
t'gether  ag'in,  an'  wus  jes'  er  big  cake.  But  she  sed 
'twas  nice.  Well,  I  waited  fur  her  ter  interduce  the 
subject,  but  she  wouldn't  do  it.  So  I  tole  her  how  I'd 
alius  loved  her,  loved  her  harder'n  er  cyclone  kin  blow; 
but  she  didn't  like  that  kind  of  love,  'case  er  cyclone 
blow'd  her  home  'way  wunst.  So  I  sed,  'Well,  I  love 
you  better'n  you  loves  the  arbutis  what  blooms  along  the 
mountain,  an'  lies  so  close  ter  the  ground  that  the  cy- 
clone can't  tech  it — jes'  blows  over  it.'  An'  she  'lowed 
how  she  reckin'd  that  warn't  true,  an'  I  made  her  b'lieve 
'twus,  an'  she  sed  she  liked  that  kind  o'  love,  but  she'd 
have  ter  ax  her  mam.  I  left  purty  happy,  an'  thought 
I'd  come  ag'in;  an'  so  I  did,  but  'twas  arter  I'd  forgot 
ter  love  her  enny  more;  you  see,  I  seed  'nother  gal  I 
liked  better.  She  wus  standin'  on  the  porch^  an'  her 
mam  had  come  home,  an'  she  jes'  tickled  me  on  the 
cheek,  an'  she  sed,  *Bill,  dear,  does  you  love  me  's  much 
's  you  did?  Mam's  ses  she's  willin' ;'  an'  I  sed,  'Naw,  I 
don't  love  you  er  bit  now,'  an'  I  ain't  never  been  thar 
eence.     But  somehow  that  gal  wus  nice." 

**Tell  us  another  experience.  Bill,"  said  one  of  the 
boys. 

**Ain't  you  never  courted  no  gals  yerself?  Don't 
you  know  how  'tis?  I'll  take  you  ter  see  er  gal  some 
Sunday.  But  naw;  Mol  'd  think  I  wus  goin'  ter  see  her 
myself;   can't  do  that." 

"Take  us  to  see  Mol,"  they  exclaimed. 

Bill  pulled  off  his  coat  and  picked  up  a  crowbar 
that  was  near.  *'Miss  Smith's  her  name;  you  call  her 
by  it." 

*'But  you  called  her  Mol.  We  didn't  know  she  had 
any  other  name." 

'*Thin  why  didn't  you  ax  me?  I  calls  her  Mol  'caze 
she's  my  sweetheart.  I  ain't  goin'  ter  tell  you  but  wun 
more,  'caze  you  needn't  'spect  me  ter  entertain  you  all 
the  time.     I  w^ent  ter  see  another  gal.     She  was  mighty 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  61 

dignified,  an'  she  wus  er  'ligious  gal.  I  axed  her  to 
marry  me ;  she  sed  she'd  go  out  an'  think  'bout  it  er 
while.  She  stayed  out  'bont  er  hour,  'an  thin  she  come 
in;  she'd  been  goin'  ter  er  school  over  here,  an'  she 
could  read  purty  fair.  She  had  the  Bible  in  her  hand, 
an'  she  p'inted  ter  er  place  fur  me  ter  read.  I  tole  her 
the  room  wus  dark  an'  my  eyes  won't  very  well,  an' 
she'd  better  read  it,  an'  she  sed  she  'lowed  how 
she'd  open  the  Bible  an'  whatever  she  saw  furst  wus  go- 
in'  ter  be  her  answer;  an'  whin  she  opened  it  she  saw: 
'An'  it  came  to  pass,'  an'  that  was  her  answer.  I 
axed  her  what  made  her  stay  so  long,  'an  she  sed  she 
thought  mebbe  wunst  wouldn't  do,  so  she  kep'  openin' 
the  Bible,  an'  ter  keep  from  losin'  her  place,  she  kep'  her 
finger  'tween  the  leaves,  an'  no  matter  whar  else  she'd 
open  it  it'd  alius  turn  back  ter  that  place.  So  she 
thought  she'd  better  have  me." 

"Then  what  did  you  do,  Bill?"  asked  the  boys. 

"What  do  you  reckin?  I   won't  a-goin'  ter  tell  her 

I  wus  much  obleeged;  so  I  jes' "   and   he  extended 

his  arms. 

Of  course  the  boys  laughed. 

I  said:  "I  think  she  must  have  been  the  right  sort 
of  girl,  Bill;"  and  he  said  : 

"I  thought  so,  too,  but  she  jes'  lived  in  here," 
(touching  his  head.)  "These  boys  been  mighty  int'r- 
«sted,  an'  thar  ain't  er  word  I  sed  been  true;  couldn't 
a'ford  fur  them  ter  have  all  the  fun." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  your  courtship  of  Miss  Mol. 
We  know  that  is  true." 

"Nc'um;  that's  jes  fur  Mol  an  me  ter  know." 

The  boys  had  been  so  interested  that  they  had  not 
noticed  the  powder  that  Bill  sprinkled  on  the  counter. 

"Mr.  Storekeeper,"  said  Bill,  "does  you  sprinkle 
sugar  'round  like  this?  Must  be  rich;  certainly  's 
good;"  and,  of  course  they  all  tasted  it. 

It  was  quinine,  and  it  was  now  Bill's  time  to  laugh. 

"You  see,  I's  considerate  o'   folks.     I   had   er  chill 


62  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

yistiddy,  an'  wus  afraid  I'd  bring  it  ter  y'awl;  chills 
mought  be  ketchin' ;  so  I  give  you  this  ter  count'ract  it; 
don't  guess  you'll  have  the  chills  arter  this." 

"Now,  Bill,"  they  said,  "you  must  tell  us  another 
experience  for  that." 

"Well,  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  talk  'bout  no  more  gals. 
I's  so  tired  I  don't  wanter  see  er  gal  in  er  week.  Let's 
talk  'bout  boys.  You  remember  that  boy  Snipes  what 
wus  here  las'year?  Well,  I  had  more  fun  out'n  that  boy; 
bet  he  never  tole  you  nothin'  'bout  it,  though.  I  tuk 
him  out  'possum  huntin'  wun  night;  'fesser  sed  he  might 
go.  I  heard  er  owl  movin'  'round  in  er  tree,  an'  I  tole 
him  it  wuz  er  'possum.  He  climbed  up,  an'  the  owl 
kept  flyin'  frum  limb  ter  limb,  an'  Snipes  couldn't  find 
it.  Trectly  the  owl  sed,  'T'whoo,'  an'  skeered  Snipes 
so  bad  he  let  go  an'  fell  ter  the  ground.  'Twarn't  er 
very  tall  tree,  or  it  certainly  would  'a'  kilt  Snipes.  I 
don't  think  he  ever  heard  er  owl  'fore,  'caze  he  'lowed 
it  must  be  wrong  to  go  'possum  huntin,'  or  that 
ghost  wouldn't  'a'  hollered  at  him.  1  axed  him  whoever 
heard  o'  er  ghost  talkin';  'twas  er  owl;  an'  he  wouldn't 
b'lieve  me.  Thin  we  come  ter  er  tree  what  had  er  sure- 
'nough  'possum  in  it,  an  I  tole  Snipes  ter  try  it  a'gin, 
an'  he  did.  He  climbed  an'  caught  him  by  the  tail,  an' 
I  wus  tellin'  him  er  great  joke  'bout  votin'  here  on  'lec- 
tion day,  an'  Snipes  wus  slowly  comin'  down  with  the^ 
'possum,  awful  proud  o'  ketchin'  him.  Arter  er  while 
the  'possum  jes'  twisted  'round  an'  caught  Snipes  right 
through  the  finger,  an'  he  dropped  down  'nother  tree  an*^ 
like  ter  'a'  broke  his  neck,  an'  of  course  the  'possum  got 
'way.  He  vowed  he  won't  goin'  with  me  no  more;  but  I 
dressed  up  one  Sat'day  night  an'  come  over  an'  axed 
him  ter  go  visitin'  'ith  me,  an'  he  dressed  ter  kill;  it 
tuk  him  'bout  er  hour  ter  git  ready,  an'  we  started.  I 
tuk  him  'round  by  the  Meth'dist  church,  through  the 
woods,  an'  back  ter  the  graveyard.  I  tole  him  the  folks 
'd  be  mighty  glad  ter  see  him,  but  they  wus  quiet  an'^ 
might  not  tell  him  so  't  fust.      I   tole  him  we  wus  goin' 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  63 

ter  see  the  Huffstetlers,  an'  you  know  thar  ain't  nobody 
but  the  HuflPstetlers  in  that  graveyard.  I  had  got  Bob 
Smith  ter  come  'round  an'  be  standin'  thar  ready  ter 
'pear  like  he  was  goin'  ter  murder  Snipes.  He  called  ter 
us  ter  halt,  an'  Snipes  got  down  on  his  knees  ter  him. 
I  did,  too,  ter  fool  Snipes,  an'  presently  Bob  let  us  off, 
an'  I  whooped.  The  moon  'rose  'bout  that  time,  an' 
Snipes  wus  as  white  as  er  sheet.  He  wanted  ter  fight 
whin  he  found  out  how  'twus,  an'  pulled  out  er  pistol  I 
didn't  know  he  had,  an'  Bob  an'  me  had  ter  git  down  on 
our  knees  ter  him  in  earnes'.  I  tole  him  the  onliest  way 
that  the  Huffstetlers  could  be  glad  ter  see  him  wus  fur 
him  ter  be  skeered  ter  death,  but  he  said  he  reckined 
they'd  be  jes'  's  glad  ter  see  us.  Snipes  wus  er  coward, 
though,  an'  'bout  that  time  er  bird  what  all  the  noise 
had  skeered  'wake,  flew  out  o'  the  bushes  in  the  grave- 
yard, an'  Snipes  run.  You  heard  from  that  feller  lately? 
certainly  would  like  ter  see  him." 

Bill's  wit  was  running  low,  and  he  knew  it.  Turn- 
ing to  me,  he  said:  "Ain't  you  rested  enough?  Let's 
go  home." 

I  was  tired  of  his  harangues.  My  heart  was  bur- 
dened with  the  desire  to  take  hold  of  a  mind  that  was 
really  capable  of  better  things,  and  develop  it.  I  told 
him  that  I  would  stay  with  my  friend  until  the  following 
Tuesday,  and  he  went  home  alone. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Well,  old  friend,  we  have  labored  a  long  time  to 
do  some  good,  and  there  are  signs  of  promise  in  the  sky. 
I  see  the  dawn  that  heralds  a  glorious  day." 

I  was  glad  to  see  my  friend  so  hopeful. 

**No,  you  are  closer  to  the  Source  of  Hope  than  I  am 
to-day.  While  1  recline  here,  I  will  libten  as  you  out- 
line the  future,  and  will  try  to  catch  inspiration  from 
your  inspiration." 

As  if,  indeed,  lifted  to  the  clouds,  he  began: 

*'l  am  conscious  of  the  darkness  of  a  night  that  has 
been  so  long  that  its  dampness  has  become  thick  and 
chill.  The  ground  is  reeking  with  pollution,  and  the 
nostrils  of  human  beings  contract  as  if  to  keep  the 
deadly  malaria  from  reaching  the  lungs.  But  human 
beings  have  caught  the  contagion,  and  their  brows 
sweat  death.  Oh,  for  light  and  life!  While  all  earth 
is  still  dark  and  deathly,  I  look  toward  the  east,  and 
I  see  the  black  turned  to  a  leaden  gray ;  and  then,  as  if 
colors  were  chasing  each  other,  I  see  the  gray  become 
purple;  and  the  purple  has  a  glow  of  red  under  it, 
which  struggles  to  show  itself,  and  now  and  then  bursts 
into  view.  The  rich,  dark  colors  fade,  and  the  east  is 
now  tinted  with  pink  and  silver  and  blue.  They  blend 
into  a  glistening  white.  The  belated  sun  rises,  and  I  be- 
hold a  glorious  dawn.  The  whole  sky  is^  ablaze,  the 
whole  world  in  resplendent  view.  The  curtain  of  mois- 
ture has  risen,  the  death  dews  have  been  clarified,  and 
now  upon  each  spear  of  grass  the  drops  sparkle  in  trans- 
parent beauty.  The  cool,  fresh,  fragrant  air  is  healing 
to  human  beings,  and  the  brows  that  sweated  death  now 
bear  the  stanp  of  life   that  is  akin  only   to    that   which 

64 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  66 

follows  the  resurrection.  When  night  began,  I  saw  a 
figure  sitting  listless,  inert,  awaiting  the  coming  dark- 
ness, but  unconscious  of  the  night's  freight  of  woes.  I 
watched  the  shades  approach,  and  saw  them  enclose 
him.  When  the  dawn  came,  I  looked  and  saw  again 
the  figure,  but  it  had  shaken  off  its  inertnesss  as  the 
night  had  shaken  off  its  fonl  disease;  and  now,  erect  in 
the  blaze  of  a  perfect  day,  the  figure  stands  firm  and 
strong,  looking  up  through  the  ephemeral  ether  to  the 
Eternal,  and  the  light  of  heaven  shines  on  his  counte- 
nance." 

Wonderful  hope!  My  soul  had  caught  the  inspira- 
tion, and  I  also  saw  the  cracker  pass  through  the  perils 
of  his  early  existence  into  the  higher  and  better  life, 
stronger  and  more  useful  for  all  he  had  been,  standing 
as  a  living,  lasting  monument  to  the  efforts  of  years,  and 
as  the  highest  incentive  to  future  labors. 

"Ah!  my  dear  old  friend,"  he  continued,  "it  is 
good  for  me  to  have  you  when  the  labors  become  weary- 
ing and  the  discouragements  wearing.  What  is  the 
most  practical  present  effort  that  will  aid  in  bringing 
about  this  result?  You  have  visited  nearly  all  the  fam- 
ilies in  thi^  and  the  adjoining  counties?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  with  you  five  months  now,  and  I 
believe  I  have  seen  nearly  all  phases  of  the  cracker  life, 
and  have  personal  acquaintance  with  nearly  every  indi- 
vidual. At  first  they  all  wished  to  know  my  intention  in 
visiting  them.  Now  they  seem  to  regard  me  as  an  old 
friend,  and  make  no  inquiries.  Some  of  them,  I  think, 
will  be  grateful  for  our  intentions,  but  I  fear  that  all  of 
them,  even  my  faithful  friend  Bill,  will  regard  our  efforts 
as  mistaken  kindness.  The  crackers  are  thoroughly  ig- 
norant of  their  needs,  so  fully  satisfied  with  themselves 
and  their  life  that  to  convince  them  of  their  mistakes 
eeems  almost  a  hopeless  task.  I  think,  though,  that  we 
had  better  approach  them  with  an  appeal  to  their  minds. 
Assemble  them  at  the  first  opportunity  and  insist  upon 
their  patronizing  the  school.     Tuition  has  been  entirely 


66  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

free.  I  do  not  believe  it  should  be  so.  When  it  is  so 
they  feel  as  if  they  are  conferring  a  favor  in  going  to 
school.  When  a  slight  charge  is  made,  they  regard  it  as 
a  business  transaction  and  seek  to  get  the  worth  of  their 
money.  What  do  you  say  to  charging  fifty  cents  a 
month?" 

"It  would  not  be  collected  from  a  dozen  of  them, 
but  some  will  value  the  school, and  education  as  a  whole, 
more  if  they  are  charged  something.  But  it  will  not  do 
to  make  the  effort  too  patent;  they  will  consider  it  a 
scheme  for  self-aggrandizement.  Bring  it  about  as  quiet- 
ly and  as  easily  as  possible.  Do  you  know  of  any  meet- 
ing that  they  will  have  soon?" 

Bill  had  spoken  of  the  candy-pulling  party  that  he 
had  expected  to  have  on  his  birthday,  and  we  decided  to 
wait  until  that  time,  and  have  a  meeting  of  the  young 
people  to  discuss  this  question.  It  was  better  to  address 
them  collectively  than  individually,  especially  as  Bill 
was  leader  among  them,  and  we  hoped  that  others, 
seeing  his  consent  to  go  to  school,  would  follow  his  ex- 
ample. 

We  had  been  in  earnest  conversation  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  as  we  went  out  to  dinner  a  slip  of  paper  was 
handed  me  by  a  servant.  No  name  was  signed  to  the 
strange  note:   "Secret  conferences  are  dangerous." 

"Who  gave  this  to  you?"  I  asked  of  the  servant. 

"A  boy  brought  it ;  he  didn't  know  who  gave  it  to 
him,  but  said  a  tall  man  down  the  road." 

I  handed  it  to  my  friend,  saying,  "What  does  that 
mean?" 

He  frowned,  and  said:  "Our  hopes  are  too  high 
now  to  be  shadowed  by  anything  of  this  kind.  Some 
cracker  who  amuses  himself  by  seeking  to  worry  you,  has 
written  it.     It  is  not  worth  a  thought." 

"I  wish  I  could  regard  it  thus,"  I  said.  Some  day 
I  would  work  out  this  mystery. 

In  anxiety  to  find  out  the  date  of  Bill's  party  I  hur- 
ried home  that   afternoon.     It   was  bitterly  cold,  and  I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKERS  67 

did  not  start  until  late.  A  light  snow  was  falling,  but 
I  paid  little  attention  to  it  until  the  ground  was  covered. 
The  flakes  fell  faster;  it  was  growing  dark,  and  I  saw 
that  I  must  quicken  my  horse's  gait  or  run  the  risk  of 
losing  my  way. 

I  could  keep  in  the  main  road  very  well,  but  the 
path  to  Bill's  house  was  narrow  and  winding,  and  by 
this  time  was  hidden.  Turning  where  I  thought  I  rec- 
ognized landmarks,  I  rode  carefully  through  the  bushes. 
My  horse  stumbled,  and  finding  that  I  had  not  struck 
the  track,  I  tried  to  find  my  way  back,  determined  either 
to  return  to  Walesca,  or  to  go  to  the  village  of  Pine  Log. 
The  snow  was  blinding;  it  was  impossible  to  reach  the 
road.  Not  knowing  whether  the  next  step  of  my  horse 
would  be  over  a  precipice  or  not,  I  held  a  firm  rein  and 
tried  to  think  what  was  best.  We  could  not  stand  still 
long  in  the  cold  and  snow;  my  horse  was  champing  and 
pawing  impatiently,  and  yet  to  right  or  left,  front  or 
back  I  was  afraid  to  turn.  Snow,  nothing  but  6now,and 
it  was  drifting  about  us  like  the  folds  of  a  death- 
shroud. 

My  friend  at  Walesca  would  think  that  I  was  with 
Bill ;  Bill  would  think  I  was  at  Walesca,  and  they  would 
not  search  for  me;  but  the  old  man  would  come  to  re- 
move the  snow  from  his  sweetheart's  grave,  and  would 
find  me  if  the  drift  should  not  be  too  deep.  I  felt  the 
soft  flakes  almost  to  the  saddle.  My  horse  made  a  lunge ; 
it  was  deeper  still.  Hope  seemed  vain.  I  took  my  note- 
book from  my  pocket,  and  wrote  a  note  to  my  wife  and 
one  to  my  friend  at  Walesca.  With  a  small  cord  I  tied 
the  notebook  to  the  highest  limb  I  could  reach,  think- 
ing I  might  be  found  by  this  sign. 

I  then  made  one  more  effort  to  escape  from  the  hor- 
rors of  my  situation.  I  did  not  carry  a  pistol  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  but  had  borrowed  one  at  Walesca  before 
leaving  this  time,  because  the  queer  note  I  had  received 
had  made  me  apprehend  some  mischief  from  the  man  of 
the  mountain.     I  now  fired  twice  in  the  air  and  listened. 


68  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

I  thought  I  heard  a  rustling  sound.     I  shouted  and  fired 
OQce  more.     I  heard  a  voice. 

"Stop  firing!" 

I  stopped  and  the  figure  approached.  It  was  the 
appirition,  taller  and  more  ominous  than  ever.  A  shud- 
der crept  over  me.    It  spoke  again  : 

*'There  are  other  things  than  secret  conferences 
that  are  dangerous." 

He  took  hold  of  my  horse's  rein  ;  is  was  well  he  was 
tall.  The  snow  came  to  his  waist  and  would  almost  have 
covered  a  smaller  man.  He  made  an  eflPort  to  move  for- 
ward, but  stumbled.  I  caught  him  just  as  he  was  going 
in  the  drift. 

'  'My  horse  is  strong, ' '  helping  him  on  in  front  of  me. 
*'If  you  will  guide  him  he  can  carry  us  both." 

He  took  the  bridle,  and  with  a  brave  effort  my  horse 
breasted  the  drift,  while  the  figure  in  front  of  me  guided 
him  to  the  path.  Silently  we  rode  the  short  distance  to 
Bill's  house.     The  man  dismounted. 

•'Whom  shall  I  thank?"  I  asked.  '*I  am  indebted  to 
you  for  my  life ;  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  render  you  ser- 
vice someday." 

"You  have  done  so  to-night,"  he  said.  ''I  could 
never  have  arisen  from  the  drift  if  you  had  not  caught 
me.  We  are  even  now  ;  I  have  saved  your  life  and  you 
have  saved  mine." 

"Your  words  are  as  generous  as  your  deed,"  I  said. 
"But  you  have  not  told  me  who  you  are." 

"The  apparition  upon  the  mountain." 

I  asked  no  more,  bat  insisted  on  his  staying  all 
night,  or  if  he  would  not  do  that,  riding  my  horse  back. 
He  would  do  neither. 

"The  horse  could  not     stand    another  trip    to-night. 
Care  for  him  and  yourself.     Good-night." 

Bill  of  course,  was  surprised  to  see  me. 

"What  does  this  mean?  How  did  you  git  here  in 
the  snow?  Didn't  know  nobody  but  me  could  find  the 
path  't  night  in  the  snow.     Cur'us  you  did.     You  look 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  69 

kinder  tired.     'Peftrs   to  me  that  somethin's  happened 
ter  you." 

I  told  him  that  my  horse  had  got  into  a  drift,  and  that 
I  had  some  trouble  in  getting  him  out. 

I  was  up  a  good  part  of  the  night  caring  for  my  horse  ; 
he  was  stiff  from  standing  so  long  in  the  cold,  and  pant- 
ing like  a  human  being  from  his  efforts  in  pulling 
through  the  drift. 

We  went  to  the  White  Cliffs,  always  white,  now 
glistening.  I  spoke  of  my  dangers  the  night  before,  but 
they  were  soon  forgotten  in  the  magnificence  of  the 
scene.  The  snow  looked  harmless  now,  and  only  a  thing 
of  beauty.  Untainted  by  contact  with  pollution  of  any 
sort,  unbroken  by  track  of  man,  it  reminded  me  of  being 
"unspotted  from  the  world."  A  snow-covered  mountain 
is  a  fit  emblem  of  goodness  untainted  with  evil.  The 
whole  looked  like  a  sheet  of  purity  tenderly  let  down  to 
cover  the  stains  of  the  world.  The  entire  mountain  was 
of  pure  whiteness,  and  the  eye  could  not  look  upon  it 
with  comfort;  the  glare  was  such  that  each  crystal 
seemed  to  reflect  the  prismatic  colors  as  the  noonday  sun 
shone  upon  them.  So  it  is  that  we  cannot  gaze  upon 
perfect  purity  sometimes,  and  good  people  are  not  al- 
ways popular. 

"Well,  if  mountain  apparitions  are  life-savers,  they 
are  as  good  as  the  monks  that  live  on  the  Alps;  so 
you  need  feel  no  further  fear,"  said  my  friend. 

*'I  am  greatly  relieved,  but  the  mystery  is  a  mystery 
still." 

We  were  going  home,  when  I  thought  of  my  note- 
book, and  we  went  to  look  for  it.  On  the  way  we  found 
the  old  man  shoveling  the  snow  from  the  lone  grave. 

"Oh!"  I  said,  "the  show  is  so  soft  and  beautiful,  it 
seems  to  me  she  would  like  it  to  cover  her." 

But  he  went  on  with  his  task.  He  seemed  so  tired 
that  we  offered  to  help  him. 

"Naw,"  he  said,  "she  wouldn't  like  fur  nobody  ter 
do  't  but  me." 


70  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

When  the  enow  was  all  off,  he  covered  the  giave 
with  small,  delicate  cedar  twigs  laid  so  smoothly  that 
they  looked  as  if  they  had  grown  there.  It  was  beauti- 
ful, this  green  mound  on  a  mountain  of  snow. 

We  tried  to  find  the  note-book,  but  it  was  gone — 
€ut  away.  A  note  hung  in  its  place:  "The  note-book 
will  be  returned  some  day." 

"Was  there  anything  of  importance  in  it?" 
**A11  my  notes  and  plans  regarding  the  crackers." 
"Too  bad,    too   bad;    but  you   can  formulate  your, 
plans  again." 

"Yes,  but  you  know  we  did  not  wish  the  crackers  to 
know  anything  of  our  efforts.  They  will  appear  to 
them  too  much  like  a  scheme." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"Well,  Bill,  when  will  the  party  be  now?" 

"Ter-morrow  night;  snow  don't  matter;  done  been 
knocked  out  o'  this  thing  wunst ;  ain't  a-goin'  ter  wait 
no  longer.  Mol  don't  live  fur,  an'  I  don't  keer  'bout  the 
others,  'caze  Mol  an'  me  kin  have  jes'  as  good  er  time  by 
ourselves." 

I  did  care,  because  I  wanted  to  broach  the  subject 
of  the  school  to  a  number. 

A  few  came — very  few — but  each  boy  brought  his 
sweetheart.  The  dressing  was  unique.  They  were  in 
their  best  clothes,  and  these  were  of  all  colors.  It  might 
almost  be  called  a  rainbow  party.  The  girls  all  had 
their  dresses  fastened  wath  pins,  which  seemed  to  serve 
the  two  purposes  of  use  and  ornament.  "Pin-money" 
evidently  meant  something  to  the  cracker  girls.  There 
must  have  been  two  rows  down  each  dress.  Mol  wore  a 
pink  calico  skirt,  blue  calico  basque  trimmed  with  red, 
and  yellow  ribbon  in  her  hair. 

Bill  announced  them  in  his  original  way  : 

"You's  been  interduced  ter  all  these  gals  and  boys, 
but  you  dunno  how  they  pairs  off." 

He  made  them  all  stand  in  a  row,  with  Mol  and 
himself  at  the  head. 

"This  's  Bill  Collins  and  Mrs,  Bill  Collins  what's 
ter-be.  We  done  put  off  our  weddin'  like  we've  done 
put  off  this  party,  but  we  ain't  a-goin'  ter  put  't 
off  much  longer.  This  's  Bob  Smith,  an'  likewise  Mrs. 
Smith  what'^  a-goin'-ter-be.  She's  Miss  Polly  Hopkins 
now.  This  is  Mr.  Jim  Brown  and  his  gal,  Miss  Silla 
Hystepper.  This  is  Mr.  Owens  Huckett  an'  Miss  Betsy 
Nustiner.     Whin  y'awl    goin'    ter   be  married,  Owens? 

71 


72  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

This  's  my  hon'r'ble  friend,  Mr.  John  Pettydo  an'  his 
gal,  what's  'bout  five  years  older'n  hira.  John  says  that 
don't  make  no  diff'rence,  an'  of  course  she  don't  think  it 
does.     Does  you,  Miss  Bell?      She's  Miss  Bell  Phue." 

The  young  woman  blurted  out  in  the  usual  boister- 
ous cracker  way.  Bill  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  kept 
on : 

"This  's  Mr.  Bob  Barrow  an'  Miss  Delia  Doolittle. 
This  's  Mr.  Arnold  Catlin  an'  Miss  Jess  Nicely.  You 
knows  'm  all;  but,  you  see,  I  didn't  think  you  know'd 
'm  in  pairs.  Well,  it's  jes'  like  I  said,  an'  I  thinks  we'll 
all  be  married  'fore  next  month." 

They  all  looked  as  silly  as  possible,  but  pleased  with 
Bill's  manner  of  announcing  them.  I  had  made  friends 
of  most  of  these  young  people,  and  my  presence  did  not 
seem  to  be  an  embarrassment. 

"Come,  mam,  let's  bile  the  'lasses." 

Each  boy  had  brought  a  little  bucket  of  molasses^ 
and  Mrs.  Collins  emptied  it  into  one  large  vessel.  The 
fun  then  began,  girls  crowding  around  to  stir  the  molas- 
ses, and  boys  crowding  around  the  girls.  I  am  sure  they 
could  not  have  breathed  with  comfort,  and  I  thought  it 
was  well  that  no  more  had  come.  When  the  candy  waa 
ready  to  pull,  they  divided  it  and  pulled  it.  Then  it 
was  put  out  in  the  snow  to  cool.  When  cool  the  candy- 
cracking  began.  A  piece  of  candy  was  suspended  from 
the  ceiling,  the  young  men  and  women  were  blind-fold- 
ed, and  each  knocked  at  the  candy.  The  one  who  first 
knocked  it  down  was  supposed  to  be  the  one  to  be  mar- 
ried first. 

About  the  time  the  knocking  began,  three  young 
men  from  the  college  at  Walesca  came.  They  were 
strangers  to  everyone  there.  They  had  simply  heard  of 
the  candy-pulling,  and  had  come  without  an  invitation. 
They  looked  like  doubtful  characters,  and  I  thought  it  a 
shame  to  have  the  innocent  fun  of  the  cracker  boys  and 
girls  broken  in  upon  by  their  presence.  They  were 
dudish  in  appearance,   and  came  for  no  other  purpose 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  78 

than  to  guy  these  mountain  folks.  They  asked  to  par- 
ticipate, and  Bill  very  generously  allowed  them  to  do  so. 
He  said,  however: 

"Why  n't  you  come  sooner  an'  bring  yer  'lasses!" 

One    answered    in   a    supercilious    manner:     "We 
thought  there  were  lasses  enough  here." 

"Well,  thar  ain't;  reckin'  you  kin  knock,  though." 

I  knew  what  they  meant;  Bill  did  not.  The  girlH 
were  delighted  with  these  young  men.  They  introduced 
themselves  as  George  Gaines,  Robert  Callaway,  and 
Frederick  Lewis.  Callaway  was  blindfolded  and  he 
asked  if  he  could  kLock  first. 

"Naw,"  said  Bill,  "I  'lows  I's  a-goin'  ter  do  that 
myself." 

He  knocked,  and  strange  to  say,  missed  the  candy. 
Bill  rarely  missed  anything,  but  he  was  angry  this  time. 
Callaway  next  struck  the  candy  and  knocked  it  down. 
Bill  was  furious,  and  wanted  to  knock  Callaway  down, 
claiming  that  he  could  see  through  the  blindfold.  ^1 
thought  so  too,  but  persuaded  Bill  to  say  nothing  more 
about  it.  Callaway  went  immediately  to  where  Mol  was 
sitting,  gave  her  the  candy  and  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  her: 

"That  fellow  Collins  is  'most  too  much  of  a  boas- 
ter. He  does  not  always  know  who  he  is  pitting 
against." 

I  expected  Mol  to  resent  this,  and  even  feared 
she  would  make  a  scene,  but  she  only  laughed  and 
said  : 

"Yes,  Bill  does  think  he's  smart,  an'  he  needs  ter 
be  tuk  down." 

I  was  surprised  at  her ;  but  women  are  foolish  some- 
times. Callaway  talked  to  her  all  the  evening,  and  Bill 
could  scarcely  stand  it.  I  felt  sorry  for  Bill,  and  dis- 
gusted with  Mol.  The  candy-pulling  which  he  had 
looked  forward  to  with  such  delight  for  so  long  was  end- 
ing unhappily  for  him.  Faithful  Bill  and  faithless  Mol! 
The   other   two  college  boys    attempted  to   monopolize 


74  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

two  other  girls,  but  they  were  not  such  heroes  as  Calla- 
way was,  and  not  so  popular. 

*'Miss  —  ah  !  t«ll  me  your  name,"  said  Callaway  to 
Mol. 

"Miss  Smith,"  I  said. 

"Thank  you,"  to  me. 

"Your  first  name.  Miss  Smith!  I  never  call  young 
ladies  by  their  surnames;  it  is  so  formal." 

"Mol,"  she  said. 

"Ah!  you  don't  allow  people  to  call  you  that?  Miss 
Mary,  of  course.  I'll  just  say  Mary;  it's  easier,  you 
know." 

Mol  rallied  here:  "Mam  always  calls  me  Mol,  an' — 
ever'body  else  does,  an'  I  reckin  I  can't  change  it  now." 

"And  who  did  you  start  to  say  just  now?  Not 
everybody — just  5ome6ocZi/,  who  calls  you  Mol,  and  you 
wouldn't  like  to  change  it  on  his  account?" 

"Bill  alius  calls  me  so." 

"What,  that  boastful  fellow  that  knocked  the  candy 
before  me  a  while  ago.?  Why;  you  are  too  nice  a  girl 
and  too  pretty  to  have  that  rude,  rough  man  call  you  by 
that  name.  The  first  thing  you  know  he'll  be  boasting 
that  he  calls  you  so." 

"'Taint  nothin'  ter  boast  of,"  she  said;  "I  reckin 
Bill  never  thought  o'  that.  He's  alius  called  me  so  ever 
since  I  wus  er  leetle  gal." 

"Well,  it's  a  shame.  I  expect  I'll  have  to  settle  it 
with  him  some  day;"  and  then  the  conversation  became 
less  personal. 

I  was  glad  it  did.  I  had  been  disgusted  with  Mol  a 
little  while  before,  but,  taking  everything  into  consider- 
ation, she  had  done  better  than  many  girls  do  in  such 
cases.  The  insolence  of  a  man  like  Callaway  is  so  easy 
that  few  girls  would  think  they  could  resent  it;  it  would 
seem  a  redection  upon  them  to  notice  it.  Never,  young 
ladies ;  a  woman  must  notice  and  show  that  she  notices 
such  insinuating,  appropriating  conversation.  Danger 
is  insidious,  and  no  matter  how   young  men  may  try  to 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  75 

laugh  off  a  thing  of  the  kind,  as  Callaway  would  cer- 
tainly have  done  if  Mol  had  been  more  decided  in  her  re- 
buff;  and  no  matter  if  i;hey  even  seek  to  cast  reflection 
upon  you  for  noticing  it,  be  sure  that  your  doing  so  will 
be  right.  A  woman  must  resent  the  slightest  familiarity 
at  its  inception.  Trust  me.  I  shall  soon  be  an  old  man. 
I  have  seen  the  world  and  know  it  is  so. 

"Well,  the  candy's  all  pulled  an'  knocked.  Let's 
tell  tales  now.  Whoever  can  tell  the  biggest  yarn  I'll 
give  'm  er  prize;  ain't  goin'  ter  tell  you  what  the  prize 
is,  but  it's  the  nicest  thing  yer  kin  think  of.  You  kin 
have  the  fust  pop  this  time,"  said  Bill,  speaking  to  Cal- 
laway. 

I  felt  relieved  to  know  that  the  entertainment  w^ould 
be  general,  but  it  did  not  become  entirely  so.  Callaway 
sat  by  Mol  all  the  time,  and  commented  upon  those  who 
w^ere  trying  to  entertain,  though  his  own  effort  was  a 
signal  failure. 

He  began:  "I  am  entertained  pleasantly  enough 
without  telling  what  you  call  yarns.  That's  a  very  in- 
elegant word  anyway.  I  saw  a  cow  once,  with  two 
heads,  and  she  was  eating  through  both  of  her  mouths. 
I  don't  guess  you  can  tell  anything  more  wonderful  than 
that." 

''Oh,  yes,"  said  Bill;  "this  ain't  my  tale  now,  but 
I's  seen  men  with  er  thousand  heads — er  head  fur  ever'- 
thing,  an'  each  one  stronger  and  bigger  an'  more  sensi- 
ble than  some  men  with  wun  head  an'  no  manners." 

Callaway  laughed  affectedly,  and  said:  "Nothing 
personal  meant,  I  hope?" 

"Naw,  'tain't  meant  fur  nobody  'cept  what  the  cap 
fits — no  more'n  er  bundle  'o  paper  drapped  in  the  road 
fust  day  o'  April  's  personal." 

"Stop  now,  Bill,"  I  said;  so  he  stopped,  and  the 
story-telling  went  on. 

Bob  Smith  said  he  had  seen  a  chimney  so  crooked 
that  you  could  look  out  of  the  west  side  of  it  and  see  the 
sun  rise  in  the  east. 


76  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

* 'Now,  that  ain't  nothin' ;  I'e  seen  er  chimney  sa- 
straight  you  had  ter  stan'  on  your  head  to  see  out'n  it," 
said  Bob  Barrow. 

"Well,  I  don't  tell  chimney  yarns,"  said  Owens 
Puckett,  "but  I've  seen  a  man  jumped  from  the  top  a* 
Pine  Log  mountain  an'  not  git  kilt." 

"That'll  have  to  be  ruled  out,  because  it  couldn't 
be  so,"  said  George  Gaines. 

"Nawr,  't  won't  be  ruled  out  neither.  I  didn't  say 
the  man  jumped  ter  the  bottom  o'  Pine  Log.  I  said  he 
jumped  from  the  top — jes'  jumped  on  the  nex'  rock^ 
'bout  four  feet,"  said  Puckett. 

"I've  seen  six  ye'rs  o'  corn  on  wun  stalk — good 
long  ye'rs,  too,"  said  John  Pettydo. 

"You  must  have  made  a  lot  of  whiskey  that  year,'* 
replied  Lewis. 

John's  father  ran  a  blind  still.  John  did  not  deny 
it. 

*'Naw,  whiskey's  better  fur  standin',  they  say,  an' 
I  thought  I  would  let  this  stan'  'fore  'twus  made,  an'  see 
how  it  'd  be.  The  stalk  didn't  have  but  wun  ye'r  on't, 
but  I  kept  it  for  five  years,  you  see,  an'  that  made  six 
ye'rs  on  the  stalk,  an'  likewise  on  the  corn.  We  ground 
it  thin,  an'  it  jes'  made  wun  glass  o'  liquor.  Fred  Lewis 
come  ter  the  still  that  day  and  drank  it.  That's  the  rea- 
son he  ain't  got  no  sense  now,  'twas  so  strong. 

"Well,"  another  began,  ''I's  eaten  er  ham  ten  years 
old.  Dad  alius  keeps  the  pigs  ten  years  'fore  he  kills 
'm." 

This  was  growing  tiresome,  and  Bill  began : 

"Y'awl  tired  o'  yarns  now.  I's  goin'  ter  tell  er 
show 'nough  tale.  Better  listen  keerful.  I  know  er  boy — 
he's  'bout  five  feet  tall — got  white  hair  an'  blue  eyes,  an' 
er  head  that  don't  hold  er  nutful  o'  sense.  He's  awful 
dudish,  an'  he  goes  whar  he  ain't  wanted.  He  went  ter 
another  boy's  house  wun  night,  an'  acted  mighty  upish  ; 
tuk  the  other  boy's  sweetheart  off  an'  talked  ter  her,an' 
said  more  mean  things  'n  the  other  boy  could  stand,    so 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  77 

he  jes'  p'lightly  axed  him  out'n  his  house,  an'  the  little 
dudish  feller  thought  it  'd  be  big  terstay.  So  the  boy 
whose  house  'twas  jes'  got  his  shotgun  an'  fixed  that 
dude  so  he  wouldn't  bother  nobody  else.  Thar  warn't 
no  trial  'bout  it,  neither."  Turning  to  Callaway,  he 
continued,    "I  hope  you  knows  the  feller?" 

"The  cap  doesn't  fit  this  time ;  I  don't  know  him." 

"Thin,  it's  like  I  tole  you.  Takes  shotguns  ter 
teach  some  folks  who  they  is." 

Callaway  pulled  out  a  pistol  and  fired,  but  I  was 
near  enough  to  throw  up  his  arm,  and  the  bullet  went 
w^hizzing  across  the  room,  rebounded,  and  furrowed  the 
floor.  The  excitement  was  terrible,  but  Bill's  friends 
were  in  the  majority.  I  told  the  three  young  men  from 
Walesca  that  they  had  better  leave  at  once,  that  Calla- 
way's was  already  a  case  for  the  grand  jury,  and  they 
had  better  not  make  it  one  for  a  criminal  jury.  He  looked 
like  a  bully,  but  was  afraid  of  the  crowd,  and  he  and 
his  companions  left. 

Before  doing  so,  however,  he  turned  to  Mol  and  said : 
^'I'll  see  you  again." 

She  answered  nothing. 

I  told  Bill  that  I  was  ashamed  of  him, a  boy  who  had 
such  fine  control  over  his  temper  when  he  chose  to  exer- 
cise it.  I  felt  sorry  for  Mol.  She  was  angry  with  Bill 
and  indignant  with  Callaway,  and  was  conscious  of  hav- 
ing herself  been  .the  cause  of  the  trouble.  There  was 
loud  talking  about  what  must  be  done  with  Callaway, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
No  one  was  brave  enough  to  open  it  at  first.  It  was 
thought  that  Callaway  would  fire  into  the  room  and  run. 
I  finally  asked  who  it  was.  The  door  was  pushed  ajar 
and  my  note-book  thrust  in.  I  picked  it  up  and  opened 
the  door  wide.  The  apparition  of  the  mountain  was 
walking  slowly  off. 

"Stay  here,"  I  said  to  the  boys  and  girls,  and  I  fol- 
lowed the  man. 

He  was  just  going  out  of  the  gate,  and  I  soon  over- 
took him. 


78  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"Won't  you  tell  me  who  you  are?" 

"No;   don't  ask  that  again." 

"Who  was  that?"  asked  Bill  when  I  returned. 

"Only  someone  who  came  to  return  my  note-book, 
I  left  it  on  the  mountain  the  other  night.  I  don't  know 
the  man's  name." 

I  told  them  that  Callaway  could  be  indicted  for  car- 
rying concealed  weapons,  and  asked  them  not  to  have 
any  trouble  about  it. 

I  then  asked  when  they,  with  all  their  friends 
who  were  not  then  present,  could  assemble  to  talk  over 
some  matters  with  me.  Two  weeks  from  that  night  wa& 
fixed  as  the  date,  and  they  dispersed. 

Bill,  of  course,  took  Mol  home,  though  they  were 
very  angry  with  each  other.  When  he  returned  we  had 
a  quiet  talk,  and  Bill  was  sorry  for  his  rash  conduct. 

"Whin  you  sees  er  feller  tryin'  ter  steal  yer  gal, what 
you's  loved  so  long,  it's  hard  ter  keep  quiet,"  he  said; 
and  I  agreed  with  him. 

Callaway  was  indicted  and  fined ;  he  was  also  sent 
home  from  school,  as  were  Lewis  and  Gaines ;  but  they 
were  told  that  they  might  return  if  their  future  conduct 
warranted  it. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  went  the  next  day  to  see  Nicely's  child,  who  was 
ill.  Bill  went  with  me.  He  was  fond  of  children  and 
was  good  to  his  little  brothers.  He  took  the  little  fellow 
some  of  the  candy  left  from  the  night  before.  We  found 
the  child  better,  and  even  able  to  eat  some  of  the  candy. 
Mrs.  Nicely  was  worn  out  with  nursing,  and  Bill  said  : 

"Let  me  play  'ith  him  while  you  rest." 

The  woman  lay  down  and  slept  for  two  hours,  while 
Bill  amused  the  child.  He  made  a  snow  man  just  in 
front  of  the  window,  where  the  little  fellow  could  see  it, 
and  I  watched  with  delight  his  generous  eflPorts  and  their 
happy  reward.  When  the  child  grew  tired  of  this,  Bill 
and  I  snowballed  to  please  him.  Bill  was  unlike  most  of 
the  crackers  in  one  thing;  he  was  industrious  enough  to 
engage  in  some  amusements.  Most  cracker  boys  will 
lock  themselves  indoors  to  keep  from  snowballing;  it  is 
too  hard  work.  The  little  boy  was  rosy  with  glee,  and 
his  mother  fresh  from  rest  when  she  awoke. 

"Mam,  I  wish  Bill  'd  come  ever'  day,"  said  the 
boy ;   and  Bill  looked  repaid  for  his  trouble. 

On  our  way  home  he  said:  "Mr.  Ramla,what  makes 
folks  feel  good  an'  happy  whin  they  jes'  help  other 
folks  er  leetle  bit?  They  don't  feel  so  when  they  help 
theirselves." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Bill?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I'se  thought  'bout  it  er  heapsence  I've  been 
helpin'  mam  plow  an'  keep  the  place.  I's  er  lot  happier 
an'  I'se  watched  other  folks  what  helps  people.  This 
here  man  over  't  Warlesky  what  runs  the  school  thar, 
he's  alius  helpin'    somebody,  an'  he  alius  looks  happy. 

An'  you,  Mr.  Ramla " 

79 


so  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

''Everybody,     Bill,  who  trie?    to  do  good  is  happy. 
Tell  me  what  you  think  it  is." 

"Well,  it  seems  terme  they  preach  wrong  enny how. 
The  preachers  preach  er  lot  'bout  what  folks  do,  an' 
don't  say  much  'bout  what  they  don't  do.  I  b'lieve  dad'd 
er  been  er  heap  better  ef  the  preacher'd  made  him  b'lieve 
that  he  orter  help'd  mam,  instid  o'  tellin'  him  all  the 
time  that  he  ought  not  ter  chaw'd  an'  drank,  'specially 
ef  he'd  'a'  told  him  how  much  happier  he'd  erbeen,  an' 
nob  how  much  happier  he'd  'a'  made  mam.  Thin,  you 
see,  dad  would  er  done  it  fur  hisself,  an'  thin  he'd  er 
learned  ter  do  it  'caze  'twas  right.  It's  jes'  like  makin' 
er  heap  o'  dollars,  an'  makin'  wun  dollar.  Whin  er  man 
wuks  fur  hisself  all  the  time  he's  makin'  jes'  wun  man, 
but  whin  he  wuks  fur  others  he's  makin'  er  lot  o'  folks. 
The  Lord  wuks  fur  us  all  the  time.  I  gits  up  in  the 
mornin';  I  finds  he's  made  the  sun  rise  fur  me;  I  gits 
tired,  an'  I  finds  it  gits  dark  fur  me.  The  corn  don't 
grow,  an'  it  jains  fur  me.  I  needs  er  leetle  money  right 
bad,  an'  I  comes  here  on  the  mountain  an'  finds  some- 
times 'fore  I  look  fur  it  er  great  big  fat  pine  tree  ter 
make  splinters  out'n." 

He  stopped  short,  faced  me,  and  said  :  "Mr.  Ramla, 
do  you  want  ter  know  why  I  think  folks  's  happier  whin 
they  helps  other  folks?  It's  'caze  they  feel  more  like 
the  Lord." 

A  poor  cracker  boy  whose  opportunities  for  knowing 
the  right  had  been  few  was  surely  not  far  from  the 
kingdom  when  he  thought  like  this.  I  told  him  I  agreed 
with  him ;  and  I  repeated  that  little  gem,  "Abou  Ben 
Adhem,"  and  told  him  of  the  poet  that  thought  as  we 
did. 

He  said:  "I  want  you  ter  I'arn  that  ter  me;"  and  I 
taught  him  the  poem  that  night. 

Crude  as  his  expression  was,  Bill  had  more  of  the 
spirit  of  Christ  then  than  many  who  have  professed  His 
name  for  twenty  years  and  never  demonstrated  their  belief 
in  the  practices  of  their  lives.     I  had  watched  Bill's  life 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  81 

for  five  months.  It  was  almost  anomalous.  Sometimes 
the  rough,  untrained  cracker  element  would  predominate. 
At  other  times  a  beautiful  Christian  element  would  man- 
ifest itself. 

The  next  day  we  went  again  to  see  the  child.  It 
was  its  wish  that  we  should  come  every  day.  And  so 
for  many  days  the  little  fellow  was  amused,  the  mother 
relieved,  and  Bill's  life  made  better  and  more  beautiful. 

At  last  the  boy  was  well  enough  to  go  out,  and  he 
enjoyed  playing  and  romping  with  Bill.  There  was  a 
large  dog  about  the  place;  the  moonshiners  keep  the 
fiercest  dogs.  Bill  and  the  child  were  playing  with  this 
creature  one  day,  when  the  dog  began  suddenly  foaming 
at  the  mouth,  sprang  forward  and  was  in  the  act  of 
grasping  the  child's  arm,  when  Bill  threw  his  own  in 
the  way.  He  throttled  the  dog,  and  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  two  was  terrible.  It  was  all  in  an  instant, 
or  I  could  have  prevented  it;  but  at  last  I  found  a  gun 
and  killed  the  mad  animal,  though  not  before  he  had 
bitten  poor  Bill. 

To  wait  even  ten  minutes  before  doing  anything  to  the 
wound  might  be  fatal.  I  remembered  the  case  of  Gabriel 
in  Eugene  Sue's  wonderful  book,  "The  Wandering 
Jew."  Poor  Bill  looked  appealingly  at  me.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  beseeching  gaze. 

"Mr.  Ramla,  will  I  be  jes'  like  him?"  pointing  to  the 
dog.  "Must  I  die  like  er  dog?  I  have  tried  not  ter 
live  like  wun." 

"There  is  just  one  thing  that  will  save  you,  Bill, 
and  that  is  to  apply  a  red  hot  iron  to  the  place  immed- 
iately." 

An  old  hoe  was  leaning  against  the  house.  I  put 
it  in  the  fire,  told  the  poor  fellow  to  lie  down,  and  ap- 
plied it.  Bill  closed  his  eyes,  but  held  his  arm  firm 
while  the  fire  and  the  deadly  virus  burned  and  hissed 
at  each  other.  I  stood  at  arm's  length  to  keep  the 
foamed  saliva  from  spewing  upon  me,  and  I  told  Bill  to 
cover  his  face.     When  the  fire  had  burned  out,    having 


82  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

consumed  the  virus,  1  hoped,  I  uncovered  Bill's  face, 
and  the  brave  young  cracker  seemed  to  have  passed  be- 
yond the  reach  of  pain  or  danger.  I  did  not  know  I 
loved  the  boy  so.  As  1  looked  upon  the  seared  arm 
and  the  pale,  distorted  face,  this  mountain  boy  seemed 
very  dear  to  me.  I  called  and  shook  him.  The  crying 
child  climbed  over  him,  and  fear  and  hope  battled.  We 
poured  water  over  him  and  rubbed  him,  and  at  last  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

''Is  it  burned  enough?  'Twas  pretty  bad,  Mr. 
Ramla;  seemed 's  ef  I  couldn't  keep  alive;  but  mebbe 
it'll  be  all  right  now.     Is  the  boy  all  right?" 

The  moonshiner's  wife  had  gone  for  her  husband, 
and  he  came  in  grumbling  about  his  dog  having  been 
killed.  After  he  saw  Bill,  though,  he  relented,  and 
helped  to  take  him  home  on  a  litter,  as  Bill  had  been  so 
weakened  by  pain  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  We  were 
anxious  about  him  a  long  time,  but  no  sign  of  hydro- 
phobia appeared,  and  he  got  well  and  strong  again. 
To  this  day,  however,  a  deep  scar  bears  testimony  to  his 
heroism. 

Not  long  after  this  occurrence,  I  met  the  strange 
man  whom  I  had  not  spoken  of  except  to  my  friend.  I 
stopped  him. 

"You  did  me  a  great  service  not  long  since — the 
greatest  service  that  one  man  can  do  another.  But  you 
follow  me  wherever  I  go;  you  seem  to  have  saved  my 
life  in  the  snowdrift  to  kill  me  by  slower  means.  If  I 
come  out  on  the  mountain  to  rest,  you  are  there.  If  I 
go  to  see  a  sick  person,  you  follow  me  there.  If  I  visit 
my  friend  at  Walesca,  you  are  there;  and  I  will  not  be 
hounded  down  in  this  way.  What  do  you  mean  by  dog- 
ging me  like  this?  Tell  me  now,  and  I  will  settle  it  with 
you,  or  I  will  settle  it  anyhow.  You  shall  not  pass  me 
until  I  know  who  you  are  and  why  you  are  watching  me." 

I  was  excited ;  he  was  perfectly  calm. 

"You  have  undergone  a  good  deal  since  you  have 
been  In  this  section.     The  strain  of  the  last  week  or  two 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  85 

alone  has  been  sufficient  to  try  your  nervous  strength. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  you  approach  me  in  this  manner* 
Your  charge  is  just,  too.  I  have  watched  you  closely 
for  five  months.  I  know  your  business  here ;  I  know, 
too,  better  than  you  do  the  prospect  of  success  or  fail- 
ure." 

"Tell  me,  then,"  I  said. 

"Not  yet.  You  must  work  out  your  own  cause. 
You  say  I  have  hounded  you.  Only  criminals  can  say 
this  and  mean  it.  In  all  my  watching  you,  I  have  not 
interfered  with  your  work  or  your  personal  liberty.  To 
watch  you  is  my  right,  and  you  must  not  object  to  it. 
You  do  not  know  it ;  I  could  not  expect  you  to  know  it, 
but  I  have  saved  your  life  from  other  dangers  than  the 
snow-drift,  and  you  have  cause  to  be  grateful  for  my 
watch.  I  meant  what  I  said;  I  wrote  you  that  secret 
conferences  were  dangerous.  They  a-re  so  everywhere, 
especially  here  among  suspicious  people.  Be  as  open  as 
you  can,  use  wise  council,  don't  fear  me,  and  go  on  with 
your  work.  I  am  dangerous  only  in  defense.  Do  not 
seek  to  know  who  I  am.  Reserve  your  threats,  and  I 
will  not  harm  you ;  but  persist  in  trying  to  discover  my 
aim  and  purpose  in  watching  you,  and  you  place  your- 
self in  fearful  peril.  Ask  no  man  my  name  or  my  busi- 
ness.    Remember." 

He  started  off. 

"Stop,"  I  said.  "If  you  know  my  purpose  in  being 
here,  help  me  accomplish  it." 

"I  have  said  work  out  your  own  cause,"  was  his 
answer;  and  he  left  me  more  bewildered,  if  possible, 
than  ever. 

On  my  way  home  I  stopped  to  see  Mol  and  her 
mother.  Mol  had  gone  to  town.  The  mother  talked 
very  confidentially  to  me,  as  she  often  did.  She  was 
anx  ous  for  Bill  and  Mol  to  marry. 

"Ever'  since  they  wus  leetle  chil'luns,  you  see, 
they's  been  lovin'  wun  another,  an'  it  'peared  like  'twas 
bound  to  be.     Bill  never  thought  o'  no  other  gal,  an' 


S4  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

Mol  never  thought  o'  no  other  boy.  Now,  'twarn't 
so  with  me  an'  my  old  man,  an'  'twaren't  so 
with  Bill's  dad  an'  mam.  We  never  thought  much 
'bout  love;  we  thought  we  must  marry,  an'  we  married 
'f  re  we  ought  ter,  I  reckin  ;  leastwise,  'fore  we  thought 
o'  who  we  was  marryin'.  Now,  I  don't  mean  no  disre- 
spec'  ter  my  old  man  dead  an'  gone;  he  wus  better  ter 
me  'n  mos'  men  is  ter  thur  wives;  I  tried  ter  be  good 
ter  him  too,  but  we  warn't  happy  like  Mol  an'  Bill  alius 
spears  like  they  air." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  am  glad  you  feel  that  thoj  are 
going  to  be  happy." 

"But  I  don't  feel  so  now,"  she  said;  "I  hardly 
think  they'll  marry.  Mol  alius  was  superstitious  kinder, 
an'  so  wus  Bill.  They  won't  either  o'  'm  talk  'bout  old 
Mr.  Brown  an'  his  sweetheart  what's  buried  on  the 
mount'in.  Seems  so  much  like  them,  they  say;  an'  Mr. 
Brown  called  'm  wun  day  whin  they  wus  little  wuns, 
an'  *fore  he  knew  they  loved  wun  'nother,  an'  told  'm 
'bout  it,  an'  how  they  mus'n't  have  that 'sperience ;  I 
used  ter  laugh  an'  tell  'm  they  warn't  bound  ter  be  like 
them.  But  I  feel  sorter  superstitious  now,  too,  it 
seems." 

I  asked  her  why  she  felt  so,  and  she  said  that  since 
Bill's  party  Mol  and  Bill  had  not  been  such  good  friends, 
and  she  feared  they  never  would  be  again.  Callaway 
had  been  to  see  Mol  twice,  and  Mol  seemed  to  like  for 
him  to  come,  and  phe  was  cross  with  Bill  lately.  Bill 
did  not  know  that  Callaway  had  been  there,  but  she 
feared  would  find  it  out  and  have  trouble  with  him. 

I  told  her  I  thought  Callaway  had  been  sent  from 
school,  and  had  not  been  in  the  neighborhood  since. 

He  was  there  last  week,  she  said,  and  she  feared 
would  come  home  with  Mol  this  evening.  He  was  stay- 
ing in  Cartersville.  She  begged  me  to  speak  to  Mol  and 
persuade  her  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  Callaway. 

I  remembered  that  the  strange  man  had  told  me  to 
be  very  open  in  all  my  dealings  with  these  people,  and  I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  85 

knew  that,  to  get  along  in  the  world,  it  is  best  to  be  as 
kind  as  possible  to  every  one,  to  treat  everyone  as  your 
friend,  but  to  have  as  little  as  possible  to  do  with  lovers' 
affairs  and  family  quarrels.  But  Bill  had  served  me  so 
long  and  so  well  that  I  could  not  refuse  to  do  him  thi& 
kindness.  So  I  bade  Mrs.  Smith  good-bye,  and  went  to- 
meet  Mol. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Down  the  road  a  little  ways  she  was  coming — alone, 
however.  I  felt  relieved,  and  walked  rapidly  to  meet 
her.  As  I  drew  near  I  saw  a  man's  form  just  passing 
-around  a  curve  in  the  road.  It  w^as  Callaway's. 
Though  I  had  seen  him  only  once,  I  ea«ily  recognized 
him  b}^  his  swaggering,  lounging  walk,  characteristic  of 
his  manner  the  night  of  Bill's  party. 

**You  have  had  company.  Miss  Mollie.  Why  did 
your  escort  not  come  all  the  way?" 

**'Caze  I  didn't  want  him  ter.  Bill's  sich  er  goose 
he  don't  want  nobody  ter  go  'ith  me  but  him,  an'  he  gits 
mad  an'  makes  er  fuss.  I'm  gettin'  tired  o'  Bill's  fups- 
in'.     He  better  mind,  or  I  won't  marry  him  yit." 

*'You  might  find  a  more  quarrelsome  man  than  Bill, 
Miss  Mollie ,  he  is  a  good-natured  boy,  and  brave  and 
true.     Take  my   advice,   and  don't  be  unkind  to  him." 

"I  ain't  never  been  unkin'  ter  him,  but  he  is  ter 
me." 

'*He  does  not  mean  to  be,  I  am  sure,"  I  said. 
■**He's  only  worried  when  he  thinks  of  your  going  with 
an  unworthy  character." 

*'I  ain't  been  'ith  no  unworthy  character." 

"You  do  not  always  know,"  I  said. 

'*I  know's  well  as  Bill.  He  thinks  some's  unworthy 
what  ain't." 

*'Miss  Mollie,  boys  are  more  apt  to  know  than  girls 
whom  it  is  best  for  girls  to  accept  as  escorts.  I  know 
better  than  my  wife  with  what  young  men  my  daughter 
should  go." 

"Well,  Bill  don't  know  Mr.  Callaway,  but  he  tole 
me  the  night  o'  the  'lasses  stew  that  ef  he  ever  saw  me 

86 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  87 

'ith  him  he'd  never  have  no  more  t^r  do  'ith  me,  an'  I 
tole  him  I  didn't  keer  ef  he  didn't,  'caze  he  didn't  know 
what  he  wus  talkin'  'bout." 

"He  told  you  right,"  I  said.  "That  night  was 
sufficient  to  reveal  Callaway's  character." 

She  flushed. 

*'Mr.  Callaway  's  er  nice  man,  as  nice  's  ennybody." 

"1  am  sorry  you  think  so,"  I  replied.  "He  did  not 
appear  so  to  me.  Miss  MoUie, this  fascination  is  strange. 
Mr.  Callaway  was  not  very  kind  to  Bill,  you  remember." 

"Oh!  he  wus  jes'  teasin'  Bill:  he  sed  he  wus,  an' 
Eill  didn't  hive  sense  'nough  ter  see  it." 

"You  do  not  like  Bill's  teasing  sometimes.  How  is 
it  that  you  can  like  the  trait  in  anyone  else?" 

"Oh!  Mr.  Callaway  ain't  been  teasin'  me,  but 
I  wouldn't  mind  fur  him  ter,  'caze  he's  so  nice."  ' 

"Miss  Mollie,  there  is  a  flow^er  that  blooms  in  your 
garden  in  the  spring;  it  is  very  handsome  and  of  bril- 
liant color.  In  the  East  that  flower  is  cultivated  in 
large  gardens  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  deadly 
drug,  which  will  kill  a  person  who  is  not  accustomed  to 
taking  it.  Near  where  this  flower  is  cultivated  in  the 
East  is  another  plant,  not  so  attractive  to  the  eye,  but 
from  it  is  made  a  balm,  so  soothing  and  healthful  that 
•Christ  likened  himself  to  the  balm  of  Gilead.  Don't 
wait  until  poison  is  distilled  from  the  poppy  to  think  of 
this.  Think  of  it  now;  and  always,  Miss  Mollie,  look 
below  the  surface  to  find  character.  Callaway  has  been 
saying  pleasant  things  to  you,  and  you  like  them.  That 
is  natural,  but  the  circumstances  under  which  he  said 
some  pleasant  things  to  you  at  Bill's  party  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  said  them  did  not  please  me.  You  are 
a  sensible  girl.  Do  the  sensible  thing,  and  let  Callaway 
alone." 

"But  I'se  tole  him  that  he  kin  come  ter  see  me  ter- 
night." 

"Tell  him  when  he  comes  that  he  cannot  come 
again.     I  mean  no  unkindness  to  Callaway,  but  I  am  in- 


88  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

terested  in  you  and  Bill.  Be  firm,  Miss  Mollie.  The 
trouble  with  young  women  is  that  they  are  not  firm 
enough  with  a  man  like  Callaway." 

When  I  got  home  Bill  was  getting  ready  to  go  and 
see  Mol. 

"You  dunno,  but  I  ain't  been  very  good  ter  Mol 
lately.  I  got  mad  'ith  her  'bout  that  man  Callaway,  an' 
sed  what  I  ought  not  ter  'a'  sed.  I's  goin'  ter  tell  her 
I's  sorry." 

"I  want  you  to  stay  with  me  to-night,  Bill,  and  help 
me  if  you  will,  and  to-morrow  night,  you  know,  all  the 
young  people  will  meet  here,  and  you  can  go  early 
to  bring  Mol,  and  make  up  your  little  trouble  then. 
Will  that  do?" 

"I  b'lieve  it'll  do  better,  an'  wun  day  won't  make 
much  diff'rence." 

Generous  fellow ' 

The  next  night  all  the  cracker  boys  and  girls  from 
^\e  miles  around  came.  Bill  brought  Mol  early,  and 
they  seemed  to  be  in  a  good  humor  with  each  other.  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  asking  Mol  about  Callaway.  He 
had  come,  and  she  had  refused  to  see  him  again.  She 
looked  happier,  and  I  told  her  so.  After  a  merry  game^ 
or  two,  and  everybody  looked  fresh  and  happy- and  ex- 
pectant, I  called  them  to  order. 

"My  dear  young  friends,  I  have  called  you  togeth- 
er this  evening  to  make  a  proposition  to  you.  I  have 
been  here  among  you  five  months.  You  have  been  kind 
to  me,  and  I  have  learned  to  love  you.  I  came  because 
I  was  interested  in  your  welfare,  but  I  am  a  thousand 
times  more  interested  in  it  since  I  know  you.  I  had 
thought  that  you  and  your  parents  before  you,  and  their 
parents  before  them,  had  lived  here  in  the  mountains 
without  culture  and  without  hopes.  And  more,  1  had 
thought  that  you  were  a  sinning  people  beyond  what  I 
find  you  are.  I  think  now  that,  though  these  things 
may  in  part  be  true,  yet  you  are  a  people  worthy  of 
honor  in  many  respects,   strong  in  some  in  which  other 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  89 

people  are  weak.  I  find  you  with  (3apacities,  and  all 
that  I  could  hope  for  any  class  I  hope  for  you ;  but  you 
need  culture.  In  the  valleys  nowhere  have  I  found 
greater  talent,  but  it  is  undeveloped;  untutored  genius 
roams  wuld;  I  beg  you  to  direct  it  in  given  paths.  At 
Walesca  you  have  a  rare  opportunity.  The  school  there 
is  not  a  brush  nrbor  university;  neither  is  it  a  make- 
shift. It  would  be  a  thorough,  broad,  liberal  Christian 
inetitution  if  you  chose  to  make  it  so.  At  its  head  is  a 
man  whose  life  among  you  speaks  for  itself.  Have  you 
thought  of  his  discouragements.?  He  would  make  the 
school  equal  to  any  in  the  State  if  you  would  support 
him :  but  last  year  it  closed  with  only  seven  students. 
Do  you  think  he  is  benefited  by  being  here?  There  are 
large  places  open  to  him  now ;  honor  and  fame  stand  at 
his  door  constantly,  and  beg  him  to  come  out  of  the 
mountains.  But  because  he  loves  jou,  because  he  ad- 
mires you  and  honors  you,  because  he  hopes  for  you,  be- 
cause he  has  confidence  in  you,  he  stays.  You  think  it 
is  his  way  of  making  a  living,  and  that  he  must  look  out 
for  himself;  it  is  his  way  of  helping  you.  You  think  it 
is  exclusively  his  work,  and  if  it  does  not  prosper  it  ii 
his  fault;  it  is  your  work  as  much  as  it  is  his,  and  if  it 
does  not  prosper  you  are  responsible.  Did  you  ever  re- 
gard it  as  a  great  work  depending  upon  you?  Would 
not  such  a  feeling  as  that  inspire  you?  I  have  been 
with  you  a  long  time  without  your  knowing  the  purpose 
for  which  I  came.  I  came  to  help  you  and  to  help  my 
friend  at  Walesca — not  to  help  him  make  money,  but  to 
help  him  in  his  work  for  you.  The  second  term 
of  the  school  for  1880-81  opens  January  2nd.  How 
many  of  you  will  go  to  school  and  bless  it  and  be  blessed 
yourselves?  I  think  you  are  my  friends — do  this  for 
me." 

"I's  't  goin'  ter  be  free?"  asked  some  one. 

"Not  entirely,"  I  said.  "There  will  be  a  tuition 
fee  of  fifty  cents  a  month  for  students  over  eighteen. 
You  will  value  it  more  for  paying  something." 


90  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

The  comments  began. 

''I  don't  have  fifty  cents  er  month  ter  spend  in 
t'bacco,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  give  no  school  that." 

"I's  goin'  ter  be  married  this  winter,  an'  I  ain't  got 
no  fifty  cents  ter  give  'way.  I  have  ter  buy  candy  fur 
my  gal." 

"I  got  ter  git  splinters  ter  sell." 

*'I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  walk  three  miles  and  set  in  er 
room  all  day  an'  hold  er  book  up  'fore  me;  I've  got 
more  sense  now  'n  that  teacher.  He  come  home  'ith  me 
wun  day,  an'  ever'  tree  on  the  way  he  axed  me  what 
'twas;  he  didn't  have  no  more  sense  'bout  trees  'n  er 
goat — not  's  much,  fur  er  goat  knows  whin  he's  eatin' 
oak  leaves,  but  he  didn't  know  er  oak  from  er  sweetgum. 
I  stopped  an'  looked  at  him  an'  axed  him  how  'twus  he 
wus  teachin'  school." 

"Well,  I's  been  thar  ter  school  wunst,  an'  I  didn't 
lam  nothin',  an'  I  don't  want  ter  go  no  more." 

**I  like  you  mighty  well,  Mr.  Ramla,  but  I  can't  do 
that  fur  you." 

Bill  arose.  "Well,  I'll  tell  y'awl  what  I  think.  I 
think  Mr.  Ramla's  right.  He's  been  here  er  long  time, 
an'  he's  been  mighty  good  ter  us.  He  wouldn't  tell 
us  nuthin'  that  ain't  fur  our  good.  I  know  I  don't 
know  nothin'  in  books,  an'  I  kinder  think  I  orter.  We's 
used  ter  lyiii'  out  on  the  mountain  an'  havin'  er  easy 
time,  an'  it'd  go  hard  ter  set  in  er  room  an'  be  still  an' 
Bteddy  all  day;  but  we  need  it.  Now,  I's  under  dues 
ter  Mr.  Ramla,  an'  ef  I  don't  go  fur  no  other  reason  I'd 
like  ter  go  ter  please  him." 

"Bill,  ain't  you  paid  fur  your  dad's  corfin  yit? 
Pretty  dear  price!'* 

"Well,  I  ain't  under  no  dues  ter  no  man  fur  nothin', 
an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  do  nothin'  what  I  don't  want  ter 
do." 

"You're  right,  Jim;  life's  short;  take  it  easy. 
Dad'U  have  ter  be  buried  in  er  pin©  box  'fore  I'll  go  ter 
school  ter  piy  fur  his  corfin." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  91 

*'Mr.  Ramla's  done  more  fur  me  'n  pay  fur  dad's 
<?orfin.     He  kep'  me  out  o'  one  jes'  the  other  day." 

"I  do  not  want  pay  for  any  little  thing  I  may  have 
■done  for  any  of  you,"  I  said.  "I  only  want  you  to  p  ly 
yourselves  your  just  dues.  You  owe  yourselves  an  edu- 
•cation." 

"Don't  have  ter  piy  what  I  owe  myself;  ain't  no 
way  o'  coUectin'  the  debt;  ain't  a  goin'  ter  sue  myself: 
never  pay  what  you  don't  have  ter,  I  say." 

I  was  beginning  to  think  that  I  was  wrong  in  tell- 
ing them  they  had  hopes. 

"Well,  folks,"  said  Bill,  "I's  made  up  my  mind. 
I  'spected  ter  be  married  this  winter,  an'  it's  er  awful 
disapp'intment  not  ter.  My  mind's  made  up  the  other 
way  though,  now.  I'll  go  ter  school  wun  yearennyhow. 
How  many  o'  you  will  do  the  same.?     Let's  vote." 

Six  voted  to  go,  four  girls  and  two  boys.  Mol  was 
not  among  the  number.  Bill  was  making  a  sacrifice,  I 
knew.     He  walked  over  to  where  Mol  was  sitting. 

"Mol,  will  you  wait?"  he  said. 

"Naw,"  was  her  unqualified  reply. 

"Thin,  I's  sorry  Mol."  His  eyes  flashed.  Great 
tears  stood  in  them. 

She  looked  at  Bill  for  an  instant,  turned,  and  went 
out.  He  followed  her,  but  she  sent  him  back  and  went 
home  alone.  Bill  walked  close  behind,  however,  and  saw 
that  no  harm  befell  her. 

We  separated  for  the  night.  I  thanked  them  for 
their  presence,  and  arranged  with  those  who  voted  in 
favor  of  going  to  school  to  enter    after   the  holidays. 

When  Bill  returned  I  told  him  that  he  had  done  a 
noble  thing,  but  I  was  sorry  it  had  cost  him   so  much. 

"Do  you  reckin  Mol'll  ever  come  'round?"  he  asked. 
^*She  didn't  use  ter  be  this  way;  ever'thin' I  sed  was 
right;  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  'ith  hernjw." 

"I  hope  she  may  be  persuaded  that  you  are  right 
and  go  to  school  with  you.  It  would  be  a  great  thing 
for  you  to  be  educated  together,  and  then  marry." 


92  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRA.CKERS 

"I  think  so  too,"  he  said;  "but  Mol's  mighty  set 
these  days.     I  reckin  she  thinks  I  am   too." 

"To  be  set  in  the  right  way  is  a  great  thing,  Bill. 
It  requires  strength  of  character  to  stand  by  it.  Strong 
men  alone  move  the  world  to-day,  and  you  have  proven 
yourself  strong  to-night.  To  be  set  in  the  wrong  way, 
when  you  see  that  it  is  wrong,  is  only  stubbornness,  that 
if  turned  in  the  right  direction  would  be  a  power.  Mol 
must  see  some  day  that  you  are  right  and  stand  by  you^ 
and  then  you  two  will  be  potent  forces.  Wait,  Bill,  and 
however  it  be  with  Mol  in  the  future,  be  sure  that  you 
are  right  not  to  change." 

I  went  to  see  Mol  the  next  day  and  tried  to  dissuade 
her  from  her  course,  but  it  was  impossible.  Once  she 
seemed  almost  willing  to  go  to  school,  and  then  she 
said: 

"Naw,  Bill  shan't  treat  me  jes'  like  he  wants  ter. 
I's  waited  long  'nough  fur  him  now." 

"Miss  Mollie,"  I  said,  "you  will  not  listen  to  me, 
but  go  over  to  Walesca  and  talk  to  my  friend  or  write  to 
my  wife,  and  she  will  reason  with  you  better  than  I 
can." 

"I  can't  write." 

"My  friend  will  gladly  write  for  you." 

She  still  remained  stubborn,  but  I  heard  that  she 
went  to  Walesca  that  day.  The  real  trouble  was  Calla- 
way. He  had  made  promises  to  her,  extolled  his  own 
worthiness  and  disparaged  Bill ;  and  although  she  had 
told  him  not  to  come  again,  in  her  inmost  heart  she 
wanted  him  to  come  again,  and  believed  he  would.  That 
day  I  mei  Callaway. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  mean  by  med- 
dling with  my  business?  You've  been  to  a  young  lady 
and  maligned  me  and  advised  her  not  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  me." 

"I  did  advise  her  not  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
you,  but  I  did  not  malign  you." 

"Well,  what  do  you    mean  by   advising  her  not  to 


DOWN  AMONG  THE    CRACKERS  93 

have  anything  to  do  with  me?  I'm  as  good  a  man  as 
jou  are.  I  guess  you've  been  speaking  for  yourself  in- 
stead of  for  Bill." 

"Mr.  Callaway,  you  have  revealed  yourself  and 
justified  my  advice  to  Miss  Smith  in  your  last  remark. 
Your  accusation  shows  clearly  your  own  purpose.  I  am 
a  married  man.  I  am  here  solely  to  do  these  people 
good,  and  such  conduct  as  yours  at  Bill  Collins'  party, 
and  since  that  time,  retards  the  work  I  am  engaged  in 
-and  interferes  with  the  happiness  of  two  honest,  upright 
souls,  whose  hearts  have  been  linked  from  infancy,  and 
w^hose  lives  are  too  pure  to  be  marred  by  contact  with 
you." 

"Who  interfered  with  their  happiness  last  night?" 
he  asked. 

"I  advised  them  for  their  good  last  night,"  I  re- 
plied, **not  for  my  pleasure,  except  as  entirely  second- 
ary. One  was  wise  enough  to  see  that  I  was  right;  the 
other,  owing  to  your  wily  influence,  was  not.  1  have  in 
no  way  interfered  with  their  happiness." 

*'Well,  you  had  better  stop  meddling  with  my  af- 
fairs, or  I'll  tell  this  man  that's  watching  you  so  closely 
a  few  things." 

"Tell  him  the  truth,  and  I  shall  be  glad  for  you  to 
tell  him  many  things." 

Callaway  knew,  then,  that  I  was  watched.  I  was 
sorry  for  this,  for  I  wds  fully  persuaded  that  Callaway 
was  a  mean  man  and  would  not  hesitate  to  do  me  the 
greatest  injury  in  his  power.  I  was  no  longer  afraid  of 
the  apparition,  but  I  did  not  know  how  Callaway  might 
use  it  to  my  hurt. 

That  night  Bill  said  that  he  would  go  to  see  Mol 
and  try  to  close  the  breach  between  them.  It  was  wider, 
he  said,  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  The  poor  fellow 
was  much  distressed. 

"Bill,  what  you  mopin'  'bout?"  I  heard  one  of  his 
friends  ask  him.  "I  wouldn't  keer  ef  my  gal  did  go 
back  on  me;   thar's  plenty  o'  other  gals,  you  know." 


94  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

''Yes,  but  not  like  mine,"  Bill  replied. 

The  next  day  Bill  told  me  that  Mol  had  utterly  and 
finally  rejected  him. 

"I  dunno  what  I'll  do,  she's  the  onliest  gal  fur 
me,"  he  said. 

"She'll  be  sorry  some  day,  Bill ;  wait  and  see,"  I 
replied. 

"Well,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  change  nohow.  I'se  goin' 
ter  school." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  term  I  went  over  to  Walesca 
hoping  that  by  this  time  many  crackers  had  determined 
to  enter  school.  There  was  a  larger  number  than  ever 
before,  but  they  were  from  a  distance.  At  eight  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  the  opening  I  saw  Bill  with  slate  and 
book,  and  with  his  lunch  in  a  small  tin  bucket,  coming 
over  the  mountain.  But  he  was  alone — a  solitary 
cracker.  All  the  others  who  had  agreed  to  come  had 
failed  to  do  so.  I  went  to  meet  Bill  and  walked  into  the 
schoolroom  with  him.  Many  of  the  boys  and  girls  snig- 
gered and  giggled,  as  silly  school-children  will  do,  and 
Bill  said : 

"Mr.  Ramla,  what's  the  matter  with  these  folks? 
Didn't  they  never  see  nobody  'fore?  I  don't  see  nothin' 
ter  laugh  at." 

Without  being  so  personal  as  to  allow  Bill  to  feel 
that  he  was  alluded  to, the  president  rebuked  the  students 
in  a  manner  so  mild^but  firm,  that  I  almost  wished  I  was 
a  schoolboy  again  and  under  the  tutorage  of  such  a  man. 
Surely  he  was  the  man  to  mould  the  characters  of  these 
young  people.     Bill  was  in  good  hands. 

The  time  for  examining  new  students  came. 

"Bill,  what  class  do  you  wish  to  apply  for.?"  the 
president  asked. 

•*How  many  yer  got?" 

The  president  explained  that  there  was  a  primary,  a 
preparatory, ^f re shman,  sophomore,  junior  and  senior 
class. 

"Which^is  the^bes'?  I  giner'ly  takes  the  bes'  goin'." 

They*were[equally  good ;  everything  depended  upon 
the  capacity  of  the  student. 

95 


86  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

**What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Bill. 

*'What  the  student  knows." 

**I  thought  you  come  here  ter  I'arn  somethin' ; 
didn't  know  you  'spected  folks  ter  know  er  lot  'fore  they 
<jome.  Cur'us  college.  I  know  er  lot  though.  Bet  I 
kin  take  you  out  here  in  the  woods  and  Parn  you  more'n 
you  ever  heard  'bout  trees  an'  snakes  an'  one  thing  an' 
another.  Say,  won't  that  pay  you  fur  my  I'arnin'  enny- 
how.  You  I'arn  me  five  days  in  a  week,  an'  I'll  I'arn 
you  on  Sat'day.  You  dunno  how  ter  plow  an'  how  ter 
drive  steers  an'  how  ter  manage  er  donkey." 

"He  will  do  pretty  well  if  he  manages  you,"  I  heard 
a  boy  say. 

"Look  here;  I  ain't  talkin'  'bout  managin' me  now. 
This  here  is  Bill,  boy;  this  ain't  Bill,  donkey.  'Fesser, 
I'll  I'arn  these  boys  somethin'  too,  but  it  won't  be  like 
I'll  I'arn  you.  Now,  I  reckin  I'll  enter  the  class  that'll 
put  me  through  fust,  'cize  I  don't  want  ter  stay  in  col- 
lege long.  Ever'body's 'posin'  me  now  'cept  you  an' 
Mr.  Ramla,  an'  my  gal's  gone  back  on  me.  You  know 
better'n  me  whar  I  ought  ter  go,  but  you  better  put 
me  whar  I  won't  have  ter  stay  but  one  year.  How 
much  kin  I  I'arn  in  that  time?" 

He  was  told  that  it  depended  upon  himself  entirely. 

"Reckin  not;  somethin'  'pends  on  you,  too.  I  kin 
I'arn  as  much's  you  kin  teach." 

He  was  put  in  the  primary  department. 

"  'Fesser,  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  get  through 
ef  I  kep'  on?" 

"Six  years,  and  I  hope  you  will  keep  on,  Bill,"  the 
professor  answered. 

"Six  years!  Naw,  sir.  You  think  I'd  spend  six 
years  in  this  place.  Mol'dfurgit  she  evor  know'd  me, 
an'  I  'spects  ter  win  her  back  some  day.  Thin  I'd  fur- 
git  how  ter  plow^  an'  git  splinters.  The  splinter  trees  'd 
jes'  pine  fer  me,  an'  the  cedars  'd  jes'  stretch  out  their 
limbs,  p'intin'  ter  the  pines,  an'  tellin'  me  ter  'seedar;' 
an'    mam    'd   have   ter  work   the   place   by  herself,  too. 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  97 

N»w,  can't  stay  no  six  years;  better  I'arn  me  all  you 
kin  this  year.  Don't  'spect  I'll  be  here  no  more  arter 
this." 

The  professor  tried  to  reason  with  him,  but  Bill 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  stay  longer  than  one  year. 

'  'I'll  see  how  much  I  know  by  that  time,  an'  thin 
I'll  tell  you  more  about  it.  Who's  goin'  ter  teach  me? 
You?     I's  ready  ter  go  ter  wuk." 

He  was  told  that  a  lady  would  teach  him,  and  that 
it  would  be  impossible  to  hear  any  lessons  before  the 
next  day  on  account  of  the  number  of  students  to  be 
classified. 

"Thin,  I'se  goin'  home.  Look  here,  Mr.  Ramla, 
this  here  place  ain't  what  folks  says  'tis.  I  don't  want 
no  'oman  teachin'  me.  I  know  mor'n  wimmen  folks 
now,  an'  I  can't  'ford  to  lose  no  time,  neither;  ain't  no 
sense  in  takin'  er  whole  day  ter  tell  folks  what  class 
they  b'longs  in.     You  think  't  is?" 

I  tried  to  explain  the  necessity  for  the  loss  of  the 
first  day  of  study,  and  told  him  also,  that  many  ladies 
were  better  teachers  than  many  gentlemen,  especially  in 
the  department  he  had  entered.  I  was  afraid  he  would 
not  come  back  the  next  day,  but  I  went  home  with  him 
and  tried  to  encourage  him. 

We  went  to  Walesca  together    the    next    morning. 
Mi&s  Blackwell  received  Bill  kindly,   but  she  told  me  af 
terwards  that  she  was  thoroughly  indignant  at  the  utter 
want  of  confidence  in  her  which  he  plainly  manifested. 

"It  was  amusing  as  well  as  provoking,"  she  said. 

She  tried  to  teach  him  to  read  by  the  word  method. 
She  spoke  of  her  efforts  thus:  "Now  this  is  'and',  and 
you  must  never  call  it  'but' ;  it  always  looks  like  this, 
and  you  may  ever  after  this  know  it  if  you  impress  it  up- 
on your  mind  now." 

"Of  course  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  call  it  'but'  ef  it's 
'and.'  You  'spose  I'd  call  er  calf  er  horse?  Is  that  the 
way  you  do.?     Don't  want  you  ter  teach  me  ef  'tis." 

The  next  day  Bill  brought  his  donkey.  He  called 
Miss  Blackwell  to  the  door. 


98  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"You  see  that  animule?  Well,  it's  er  donkey. 
The  nex'  time  you  see  it,  don't  call  it  er  cow.  Now, 
look  at  't  right  good  an'  'press  't  'pon  your  min'  an' 
you  won't  furgit  it's  er  donkey.  You  ain't  a-goin'  ter 
charge  me  nothin'  fur  yietiddy  neither,  'caze  I's 
Famed  you  's  much  's  you  has  me." 

He  heard  her  teaching  a  little  boy  by  the  object 
method.  The  child  was  absent-minded.  There  was  a 
picture  of  a  girl  pulling  fruit  from  a  vine  somewhat  re- 
sembling a  cymbling  vine.  He  read:  "Girls  is  cur'us 
things;  they  grow  on  a  vine  like  squashes.'  " 

Bill  gave  a  long  whistle-  ''I  alius  know'd  they  wus 
cur'us,  but  I  never  know'd  they  growed  like  that  'fore. 
Is  that  the  w^ay  you  growed,  Miss  Teacher?  No  wonder 
they's  plent'ful.  Squashes  is  mighty  easy  raised.  I'll 
stop  school  this  day  an'  plant  squash  seed." 

The  teacher  checked  him.  She  laughed,  however, 
and  told  the  child  that  girls  usually  had  clinging  pro- 
clivities, but  not  that  strong.  Bill  was  very  disgusted 
with  the  word  method,  however,  and  really  wanted 
to  stop  school. 

"I  kin  Ftay  at  home  an'  look  at  pict'rs,  an'  I  alius 
did  know  er  cat  an'  er  dog  when  I  seed  'm." 

One  day  Miss  Blackwell  was  teaching  Bill's  class  an 
object-lesson  in  primary  language.  She  held  up  a  chest- 
nut burr. 

"Class,  what  is  that?" 

"A  chestnut  burr,"  the  children  all  replied. 

*'What  has  been  in  it?" 

"A  chestnut." 

"Where  is  the  chestnut?" 

"I  et  it,"  said  Bill. 

"What  is  the  shape  of  the  burr?" 

"Round." 

"Where  does  it  grow?" 

"On  a  tree." 

"When  does  it  grow?" 

*'In  the  summer  and  fall." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  9& 

"What  is  the  use  of  the  burr?" 

About  that  time  the  teacher  pressed  the  burr  too 
hard. 

"It's  good  ter  stick  the  hands  o'  school  teachers  an* 
idjuts,"  said  Bill;  and  he  picked  up  his  books  and  left 
the  room. 

"What'd  you  fool  me  an'  try  ter  git  me  ter  come  ter 
this  place  fur,  Mr.  Ramla?  I  didn't  think  you'd  da 
that." 

The  poor  fellow  was  almost  crying.  He  seemed  to 
feel  as  I  have  felt  many  a  time  when  I  found  myself  mis- 
taken in  a  friend.  It  is  not  so  much  the  injury  that  one 
feels  as  the  sense  of  confidence  shaken. 

"I  thought  you  wus  er  good  frien'  o'  mine,  an^ 
I  didn't  b'lieve  you'd  'stroy  er  feller's  hap'ness  like  this 
out'n  'twus  fur  his  good.  I  thought  I  wus  goin'  ter 
I'arn  som'thin'  an'  could  write  ter  you  mebbe  when  you 
go  away." 

I  felt  almost  like  a  criminal. 

"Why,  Bill,  what  is  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "I 
have  not  deceived  you.  This  is  an  excellent  school,  and 
the  best  place  for  you  just  now.  Are  you  not  learning 
as  fast  as  you  expected?  Education  is  a  slow  process. 
Do  not  be  discouraged." 

"  'T  ain't  that.  Thar  ain't  nothin'  here  ter  I'arn. 
That  'oman  can't  teach  me  nothin'.  This  object  biznes& 
ain't  worth  nothin'  ter  me,  an'  so  's  I's  goin'  home;" 
and  he  went. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  I  could  persuade  him  to 
go  back  and  make  a  suitable  apology  to  Miss  Blackwell. 
He  finally  went,  however. 

"I's  sorry  ter  treat  er  lady  disr'spectful-like,  but  I 
ain't  sorry  I  sed  what  I  did  'bout  the  teachin'.  Thar 
ain't  no  sense  in  that." 

To  accomplish  what  we  so  much  desired  for  the 
crackers,  the  method  was  much  modified  for  Bill,  and  he 
became  more  interested  and  more  studious.  He  refused 
to  pay  tuition  for  the  first  month,  and  the  matter  wa& 


100  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

not  pressed.  It  was  a  long  time  before  so  old  a  boy 
<30uld  be  trained  to  study  with  profit.  His  faculties  of 
mind  were  as  wild  as  the  deer  upon  the  mountains,  and 
had  to  be  harnessed  before  they  could  be  driven.  Both 
he  and  Miss  Blackwell  would  become  discouraged  at 
times,  and  marks  of  care  began  to  appear,  but  they  were 
both  brave  and  faithful.  Several  times  during  the  year 
Bill  left  the  school  in  disgust  and  anger,  but  before  he 
reached  home  he  determined  to  try  another  day.  He 
learned  to  read  and  to  write,  also  something  about  arith- 
metic and  grammar.  He  was  proud  of  his  knowledge, 
too,  and  displayed  it  upon  every  occasion.  It  would, 
indeed,  take  vast  learning  to  suppress  Bill's  boasts,  and 
to  teach  him  how  little  he  knew.  Conceit  is  the  great- 
est trouble  with  the  crackers. 

Bill  sought  to  make  Mol  envious  and  arouse  her  re- 
gret by  his  wonderful  display  of  information. 

"Mol,  you  don't  know  what  yer  missin*.  I's  goin' 
ter  be  the  smartes'  man  in  Georgy;  better  take  me  'fore 
it's  too  late.  I'll  be  too  smart  fur  you  arter  er  while. 
Now,  lemme  show  you  how  much  I  know.  Gimme  some 
paper."  And  he  wrote  :  "Mol,  I  love  you,  but  Callaway 
don't."  Then  he  said:  "Now,  you  don't  know  what 
that  is.  But  the  nex'  time  that  man  Callaway  comes, 
ax  him.     I  reckin  he  kin  spell  't  out." 

Callaway  went  that  evening  .  Mol  showed  him  the 
slip  of  paper  Bill  had  left,  she  told  me,  but  he  refused  to 
tell  her  w^hat  it  was. 

"It's  something  unkind  about  you.  Miss  Mary.  I 
always  told  you  that  fellow  was  a  rascal,  and  this  proves 
him  such."  He  tore  the  paper  into  bits  and  threw  them 
away  in  apparent  anger. 

Mol  was  mortified  beyond  measure.  She  came  to 
me  the  next  day  with  the  pieces  of  paper  that  she  had 
collected  after  Callaway  left.  For  her  gratification  I 
pasted  them  on  a  card,  and  after  some  effort  deciphered 
the  sentence. 

"I  am  glad  of  this,"  I  said.     *'I  hope  now  that  you 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  101 

will  never  believe  Callaway  again.  He  is  deceiving  you, 
as  he  has  probably  deceived  many  a  girl  before,  and 
I  think  you  have  cause  to  fear  him.  Whether  you  ever 
care  for  Bill  again  or  not,  I  beg  you  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  Callaway ." 

She  had   never   ceased    to    care    for  Bill.     I   knew 
it  then;  but  she  was  a  stubborn  girl. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Of  course  Callaway  heard  of  her  coming  to  me,  and 
one  night  not  long  afterwards,  when  Bill  and  I  were  out 
walking,  we  became  conscious  that  some  one  was  follow- 
ing us.  I  thought  of  the  apparition,  but  had  become  so 
accustomed  to  it  that  I  feared  it  little  now,  though  a 
shudder  would  sometimes  creep  over  me  when  I  saw  it 
stalking  in  gloomy  stride  upon  the  mountain  in  its  pecu- 
liar white  attire.     Strange  to  say,  Bill  had  never  seen  it. 

"Who  is  that  behind  us,  Mr.  Ramla?" 

"Some  one  out  for  a  walk,  as  we  are.  We  must  not 
•question  the  movements  of  persons  in  public  places." 

*'No,  but  nobody  don't  walk  here  but  us,  an'  I 
kinder  thinks  that  man  Callaway  's  meanin'  some  harm 
ter  me.  Ef  he  don't,  I  do  ter  him.  He's  been  ter  see 
Mol  lately." 

Just  then  a  bullet  whizzed  by  us,  so  close  that  it 
struck  my  hat.  To  run  would  be  futile,  so  we  crouched 
in  the  bushes,  hoping  the  assailant  would  lose  sight  of 
us.     Two  men  in  masks  came  in  sight. 

*'We  have  them  now,"  one  said,  "and  will  shoot 
them  like  dogs." 

They  came  toward  us,  and  I  felt  sure  they  had  not 
lost  sight  of  us.  They  seemed  to  be  searching,  however, 
and  we  waited.  Soon  they  passed  us,  but  they  seemed 
to  know  we  were  somewhere  there,  and  I  thought  they 
would  soon  return,  so  1  whispered : 

**Let  us  catch  them,  Bill,  and  wrest  their  pistols 
from  them." 

We  sprang  upon  them,  and  almost  before  they 
knew  it,  the  pistols  were  in  our  hands.  They  ran.  We 
iired,  but  a  turn  in  the  path  hid  them  for  a  moment,  and 

102 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  103 

they  escaped.  Their  masks  had  prevented  us  from  seeing 
who  they  were ;  but  neither  one  was  the  apparition;  I 
knew  by  their  size. 

I  went  to  Walesca  immediately  and  had  a  warrant 
issued  for  Callaway.  I  suspected  that  his  companion 
was  Gaines,  but  the  only  evidence  was  his  size,  and  I 
did  not  feel  justified  in  having  him  arrested.  The  pis- 
tol that  we  took  from  one  of  them  was  of  the  same  cal- 
ibre as  the  one  Callaway  used  the  night  of  Bill's  party. 
The  officers  found  Callaway  at  home  near  Cartersville 
that  night.  Though  he  had  ample  time  to  get  there 
while  I  was  going  to  Walesca,  he  proved  an  alibi  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  court.  I  was  still  confident,  however, 
that  the  man  who  had  attacked  us  was  Callaway;  and 
so  was  Bill.  Of  course  Callaway  was  a  bitterer  enemy 
now  than  ever  before.  We  had  him  sworn  to  keep  the 
peace,  but  an  oath  was  nothing  to  such  a  man.  Calla- 
way was  a  coward,  too.  If  he  had  been  a  brave  man, 
who  would  not  have  tried  to  shoot  his  enemy  in  the  back, 
there  would  not  have  been  such  cause  for  fear. 

Bill  was  doing  so  well  in  school  that  I  tried  to  per- 
suade others  to  attend,  but  it  seemed  useless.  I  thought  I 
would  visit  the  old  crackers  and  talk  with  them  about  it, 
though  that  had  always  been  considered  the  least  effec- 
tual method.  My  friend  urged  me  to  make  an  effort 
anyway,  and  I  did  so  with  some  hope.  I  went  to  the 
old  gold-washer  who  had  refused  once  to  even  talk  about 
sending  his  children  to  school. 

"Mr.  Downey,  how  is  the  gold  business  now?  I  hope 
you  are  doing  well." 

''Oh!  fine.  I  kin  buy  more  t'bacco'n  I  kin  chaw 
these  days.     How's  bizness  'ith  you?" 

"Well,  you  know,"  I  said,  "I  have  not  paid  much 
attention  to  my  financial  affairs  for  nearly  a  year  now. 
I  have  been  with  you  people  trying  to  advance  your  in- 
terests." 

"Well,  I  dunno  how  you  could  have  ennything  ter  do 
'ith  what's  in  the  ground  without  you  come  here  ter  pour 


104  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

er  bag  er  two  o'  loose  gold  fur  us  fellows  ter  git  out.     I 
know  we're  gittin'  it,  though." 

I  told  him  that  it  was  not  to  enrich  him  in  dollars 
that  I  came,  but  to  do  more  for  him — to  persuade  him 
to  send  his  children  to  school,  that  they  might  be  qual- 
ified not  only  to  make  money,  but  to  make  better  and 
more  useful  men. 

"You  mean  ter  say  I  ain't  no  'count  in  the  world? 
Like  ter  know  what  this  country'd  be  'ithouC  me.  Ef  I 
wus  ter  die  ter-night,  thar'd  be  five  hundred  folks  her& 
screamin'  an'  cryin'." 

I  thought  there  had  been  almost  that  many  when 
old  James  Collins  died. 

"I  do  not  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Downey,  that  you  do- 
nothing  for  the  world,  but  I  do  say  that  you  co«ld  do  a 
great  deal  more  if  you  had  taken  advantage  of  such  op- 
portunities as  are  now  otfered  your  children." 

"I  never  had  no  sech  chances,  an'  I's  glad  I  didn't^ 
'caze  sombody  mought  'a'  fooled  me  inter  goin'  ter  school 
an'  wastin'  time.  Mebbe  I  mout  'a'  been  lyin'  'round 
like  you,  doin'  no  wuk  fur  er  year.  You're  er  good  fel- 
ler," he  continued.  "I  think  you  means  us  well  but 
thin  you  bother  er  man  talkin'  ter  him  'bout  doin'  some- 
thin'  what  he  knows  ain't  best.  You  see,  I's  tried  not 
foolin'  with  schools,  an'  I  gits  'long  all  right.  You 
ain't  never  tried  it,  an'  you  dunno  what  you's  talkin^ 
'bout." 

I  laughed  and  told  him  that  I  thought  the  same 
thing  of  him. 

''Now,  don't  git  mad;  I  wants  you  ter  come  ter  see 
me  ag'in,  but  don't  say  no  more  'bout  schools.  I  see  er 
quill  o'  gold  lyin'  right  yonder  in  the  water;  I  mus'  ga 
an'  wash  it  out.  Hurrah  fur  er  man  what  's  gittiu' 
rich  !  Good-bye,  Mr.  Ramla ;  git  all  the  chillen  that 
will  ter  go  ter  school,  but  please  stop  by  the  house  an' 
tell  mine  ter  come  an'  help  thur  dad  git  gold." 

I  left  laughing,  but  sick  at  heart.  1  went  next  to 
see  another  of  the  gold-washers,  a  brother  of  Nicely,  the 
moonshiner.     I  found  him  at  home. 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  106 

"Mr.  Nicely,  how  is  it  that  you  are  not  at  the  wash- 
ings?    I  hear  that  gold  is  plentiful  now." 

"Well,  Bill  Downey  ees  he  gits  er  heap,  but  Bill's 
er  powerful  boaster.  I  don't  git  more'n  'nough  ter  live 
on.  I've  been  makin'  money,  though,  in  'nother  way. 
I  had  er  old  steer  that  warn't  doin'  no  good  on  the  patch. 
I  don't  raise  much  cotton  or  sorghum,  you  know.  Most 
o'  my  livin's  gold  an'  I  tole  my  old  'oman  that  we  could 
borrow  er  steer  wunst  er  twict  er  year  ter  plow,  an'  she 
could  do  the  rest  hoein' ;  she's  er  pow'ful  good  'oman 
ter  'tend  ter  craps.  So  I  sold  that  steer,  Mr.  Ramla,  an' 
what  do  you  think  I  got  fur  him?  He  wus  fifteen  year 
ole,  an'  he  couldn't  eat  grass.  Ter  tell  you  the  facts  in 
the  case,  I  thought  that  steer  wus  goin'  ter  die.  So  I 
tuk  him  down  ter  the  branch  an'  made  him  drink  fur  er 
hour.  The  quill  men  thought  he'd  drink  all  the  gold, 
but  I  tole  'm  'twas  all  the  same  ter  me ;  that  I  wus  goin' 
ter  git  gold  fur  him,  an'  he  won't  drinkin'  no  more'n  my 
sheer.  Thin  I  drive  him  ter  town.  'Here's  the  bes* 
plowin'  animule  in  these  diggin's,'  I  sed  ter  er  man;  'I 
wouldn't  sell  him  fur  nothin'  I  knows  of.'  'I's  sorry 
fur  that,'  he  said:  'I  wus  goin'  ter  offer  you  er  big  price 
fur  him.'  'Well,'  I  led,  'ef  you  need  him  very  much, 
I's  er  'commodatin'  man,  an'  ef  you's  ohleeged  ter  have 
er  steer  I'll  let  you  have  him  ef  you  can't  do  better. 
How  much'll  you  gimme?'  'Twenty  dollars.'  'Whoop! 
you  reckin  I'd  sell  my  steer  fur  that?  I  can't  talk  ter 
you.  Here,  let  me  git  in  the  store  an'  buy  what  I'b 
goin'  ter  an'  git  home.'  'I  thought  you  wus -goin'  ter 
let  me  have  him  fur  'commodation?'  he  sed.  "Commo- 
dation  sells  higher'n  that  in  this  country.'  'Forty 
dollars,  thin/  he  sed.  'That  sounds  more  like  it.' 
'Will  you  take  that?'  he  axed.  I  shuck  my  head. 
'Fifty  dollars,  thin?'  'Yes,  ter  help  you  'long  I'll  take 
that,"  'caze  I'  wus  afraid  the  ole  steer'd  'die  'fore  he 
could  go  enny  higher.  But  ef  I  hadn't  been  ekeered  o' 
the  steer  that  man  'd  'a  give  er  hundred  dollars  fur  him 
'fore   I   let  him   go.     He  pulled  out  the  cool  cash  an* 


106  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

handed  't  ter  me  an'  walked  off  'ith  his  steer,  an'  1 
walked  off  too,  's  fast  's  possible.  I  was  anxious^  you 
know.  The  next  day  the  man  come  over.  He'd  been 
all  day  tryin'  ter  find  me,  an'  he  wanted  his  money  back. 
*Bring  me  the  steer,'  I  sed.  'He's  dead,'  he  sed ;  an' 
talked  pow'ful  mean.  'Thin  I  don't  give  you  the 
money.'  'But  you'll  have  ter.'  'Well,  I  don't  reckin  's 
how  I  will.  See  here;  I  give  you  er  live  steer,  an'  you 
give  me  fifty  dollars.  Ain't  that  so?'  'Yes.'  'Well, 
you  bring  me  back  the  live  steer  an'  I'll  give  you  back 
the  fifty  dollars.'  He  had  er  shot-gun,  but  I  did,  too, 
an'  wus  er  leetle  quicker  on  the  trigger  'n  hini ;  so  he 
went  off  growlin',  sayin'  he  wus  goin'  ter  litigate.  He 
kin  litigate,  but  he  can't  git  that  fifty  dollars.  I  don't 
have  ter  wash  gold  now,  you  see ;  I  kin  live  on  that  two 
year;  but  I  go  down  now  an'  thin  ter  keep  my  hand  in. 
You  been  ter  Be«  the  washers  ter-day?" 

"Mr.  Nicely,  I  have  come  to  see  all  the  gold- wash- 
ers that  I  can  to-day  about  sending  their  children  to 
school.     Do  you  not  think  you  should  send  yours?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Ramla,  I  dunno ;  I  could  be  teachin' 
my  chilr'n  how  ter  sell  steers  while  they're  goin'  ter 
school,  an'  it'd  be  er  heap  more  prof't'ble.  Bill  Collins 
's  goin'  ter  school,  an'  he'd  er  heap  better  be  gittin' 
splinters,  'pears  ter  me." 

"He  does  get  splinters  to  pay  his  tuition.  He  fur- 
nishes the  college  with  kindling  wood  and  goes  to  school, 
and  after  a  while  he  will  be  able  to  do  more  than  get 
splinters.  Bill  will  be  a  great  man  some  day  ;  he  is  do- 
ing wonderfully  well  in  school." 

"Reckin  he'll  ever  make  enny  money  by  it?" 

"Money  and  fame,  and,  what  is  more,  he  will  bless 
the  world  with  a  useful  life." 

"Be  more'n  his  dad  did." 

"His  father  made  no  effort  to  become  such  a  man 
as  Bill  will  some  day  be.  That  is  just  what  I  am  speak- 
ing of  now,  Mr.  Nicely.  There  is  no  telling  what  you 
might  have  done  and  might  still  do  for  the  world  if  you 
had  had  advantages." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  107 

''But  I  don'  want  ter  help  the  world;  I  want  ter 
help  myself." 

"We  must  not  be  all  for  self,"  I  said.  "But  this  is 
true,  the  more  we  do  for  others  the  more  we  are  helped 
ourselves,  and,  of  course,"  taking  another  line  of 
thought,  '*the  more  we  are  able  to  help  others  the  more 
we  are  able  to  help  ourselves." 

"Now  you  hit  the  nail  on  the  head;  that's  so. 
Well,  I's  been  thinkin'  o'  sendin'  the  chaps  ter  school. 
How  much  do  they  ax  over  at  Warlesky?" 

I  told  him,  and  he  promised  to  think  about  it  more. 
I  tried  to  get  him  to  say  definitely  then  that  he  would 
send  them,  but  he  would  not  commit  himself,  and  I 
would  not  irritate  him  by  pressing  the  matter. 

I  next  went  to  see  Mr.  Sims.  He  had  just  come 
from  Walesca. 

"I's  jes'  been  ter  town,  Mr.  Ramla.  I  tell  you 
they're  makin'  er  heap  o'  fuss  'bout  that  college  over 
thar.     I  never  heard  so  much  talk  'bout  er  place." 

"That  is  v^hat  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  about, 
Mr.  Sims.  The  college  is  doing  better  this  year  than 
€ver  before.  The  attendance  is  larger,  and  the  manage- 
ment could  not  be  better.  It  is  time  you  people  were 
taking  a  pride  in  the  school  and  supporting  it." 

"I  ain't  got  no  money  ter  give  it.  I's  proud  thar's 
sech  er  thing  'bout  here,  though." 

"I  do  not  mean  that  you  should  support  it  with 
money,  Mr.  Sims.  I  should  rather  have  said,  let  it  sup- 
port you.  Send  your  children  to  school  and  let  them 
have  all  the  advantages  it  oflPers." 

"Seems  'most  like  I'll  have  ter.  A  feller  '11  be 
thought  cur'us  arter  er  while  fur  not  sendin'.  It  us'ter 
be  thought,  though,  that  er  man  warn't  no  'count 
that'd  send  his  chillun  ter  school  ter  git  rid  o'  'm,  but 
now  't  'pears  ter  be  the  fashion  ter  send  'm." 

"The  world  is  more  enlightened  upon  those  subjects 
than  it  used  to  be.  Will  you  not  send  the  children  right 
away?" 


108  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

**Mr.  Ramla,  ef  it's  fur  thur  good  I  want  'm  ter  go, 
I  tries  ter  do  what's  right  by  my  chillun.  But  they 
don't  want  ter  go.     They'd  er  heap  ruther  wuk." 

I  called  a  little  boy  and  asked  him. 

"Naw,  I  don't  want  ter  go  ter  school.  Dad  never 
went  ter  school,  an'  you  reckin  I  want  ter  be  smarter'n 
dad?" 

I  tried  to  explain  to  the  child,  but  he  would  not  un- 
derstand, and  the  father  said  it  was  useless  to  talk  to 
him. 

'*Now,  I'll  tell  you ;  I  ain't  tried  ter  git  'm  ter  go 
much,  but  I'll  see  what  I  kin  do  an'  let  you  know.  I 
'spect  it's  er  good  thing." 

Not  long  after  this  I  returned  to  see  if  Nicely  and 
Sims  were  not  ready  to  send  their  children  to  school. 

"By  no  means;  I  ain't  er  goin'  ter  send,"  said 
Nicely.  "That  man  litigated  me  out  er  the  fifty  dollars, 
an*  I  had  ter  pay  fur  cheatin'  an'  swindlin'  besides." 

Sims  said  he  had  not  persuaded  the  children  yet. 
He  had  spoken  to  them  once  only.  I  begged  him  to 
speak  again  and  to  send  them,  even  against  their  will,, 
rather  than  not  at  all. 

"Naw,  that  wouldn't  do,  "he  protested. 

Well,  they  say  the  rock  is  worn  little  by  little. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  April.  I  had  been  among  the  crackers  nine 
months.  I  had  stayed  with  Bill  most  of  the  time,  and 
though  he  and  his  family  had  been  as  kind  and  thought- 
ful as  they  could  be,  and  had  given  me  the  best  they 
had,  their  means  were  meagre,  and  their  manner  of  liv- 
ing, though  mine  had  been  humble  enough,  was  differ- 
ent from  mine.  I  had  not  felt  like  myself  for  a  long 
while.  The  strain  of  the  experience  was  telling  on  me. 
A  gloom,  whose  influence  I  had  never  felt  before,  settled 
over  me,  and  I  realized  that  he  who  tries  to  help  the 
world  sometimes  wears  out  in  the  effort.  I  had  hardly 
thought  before  of  leaving  an  unfinished  work.  In  hope 
and  expectation  I  had  always  seen  my  labor  completed. 
Alas !  such  hopes  and  expectations  are  visions  only.  No 
man  leaves  a  finished  work ;  the  most  that  any  man  can 
do  is  to  contribute  his  little  with  a  thousand  others  be- 
fore and  after  him.  Thus  comes  the  saying:  "Other 
men  have  labored,  and  we  have  entered  into  their  la- 
bors." 

One  day  I  said  to  Bill :  "Bill, do  you  not  think  I  have 
done  about  all  I  can  for  this  section?  I'm  thinking  of 
going  home  and  leaving  the  work  to  better  hands." 

"Who  you  goin'  ter   leave  in  yer  place?" 

"Oh  !  some  good  man  will  come  and  take  the  work 
after  a  while.     I  do  not  know  of  anyone  just  now." 

"Thin  you  ain't  a-goin'.  Look  here,  Mr.  Ramla, 
you  done  er  lot  fur  us  folks,  an'  we  ain't  ready  ter  give 
jou  up." 

"That  is  largely  due  to  your  attachment,  Bill;  but 
it  is  kind  in  you  to  say  it.  I  should  be  delighted  to  stay 
with  you,  and  it   was  my    hope  to  do  so,  but  there  is  a 

109 


110  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

greater  obstacle  than  we  can  remove  in  the  way.  Mj 
health  is  failing,  and  I  do  not  think  I  shall  be  able 
to  do  further  work  for  a  long  while — probably  never." 

•'What!  Mr.  Ramla,  you  ain't  goin'  ter  die?  Well, 
you  look  bad.  I  been  so  bizzy  I'arnin'  I  ain't  thought 
'bout  it.  But  you  lemme  go  fur  the  doctor,  an'  he'll 
fotch  you  'round  in  a  day  or  two." 

*'I  do  not  think  it  is  medicine  I  need  so  much  as 
rest.     I  must  go  home  for  awhile  anyway." 

Bill  said  nothing,  but  when  he  came  from  school 
that  afternoon  he  brought  the  doctor  with  him. 

*'Now,  Doctor,  I  jes'  want  you  ter  make  Mr.  Ramla 
well.  He's  kinder  onto'  heart.  Tell  him  he  ain't  er  go- 
in'  ter  die,  an' 'it'll  help  him  wonderful." 

I  felt  glad  that  Bill  had  been  so  thoughtful.  Dr. 
Wells  could,  at  least,  advise  me  what  to  do. 

"You  are  broken  down  from  the  rough  life  and  the 
worry  of  your  arduous  task.  You  have  contracted  ner- 
vous dyspepsia.  You  should  have  treatment  for  this  at 
once,  and  to  regain  your  wonted  health  and  strength 
you  should  not  attempt  any  labor  that  will  excite  or  try 
you  for  six  months  at  least." 

Why  was  not  my  own  constitution  as  robust  as  other 
men's?  My  friend  at  Walesca  worked  much  harder 
than  I,  with  a  great  deal  more  to  worry  him,  and  he  had 
not  broken  down  after  ten  years'  test.  I  went  over  to 
see  him  and  told  him  of  my  necessity  for  leaving  the 
work  to  him  for  a  while,  until  some  one  else  could  take 
my  place. 

"I  shall  wait  for  you  to  return;  no  one  else  could 
take  your  place  just  now.  It  would  take  him  as  long  as 
it  has  taken  you  to  know  the  people  and  to  gain  influ- 
ence with  them." 

It  was  well  for  my  friend  that  it  was  decided  thus. 
The  worry  of  assisting  a  new  man  in  the  work  would  be 
too  much  for  him.  I  looked  at  him  now.  Strange  that 
I  had  not  noticed  it  before.  He  was  pale  and  thin,  and 
looked  so  worn  it  was  pitiful.     He  knew  my  thoughts. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  111 

"I  can  stand  it  a  long  time  yet,  and  if  I  should 
break  down  no  one  will  greatly  suffer  by  it.  You  must 
go  to  your  family." 

I  thought  it  due  to  people  who  had  received  me  so 
kindly  to  see  them  all  before  going,  and  it  was  due  to 
the  work  that  I  should  again  urge  them  to  think  of  it. 
They  all  seemed  sorry  to  have  me  go ;  it  was  gratifying 
to  hear  their  kind  expressions. 

I  went  up  on  the  mountain :  it  was  an  old  friend, 
and  I  had  some  sentiment  about  it.  The  old  man  was 
by  the  grave.  We  had  grown  accustomed  to  seeing  each 
other  there.  He  was  just  through  with  his  work.  The 
mound  was  covered  with  arbutus  blossoms,  and  looked 
like  a  lovely  bouquet.  The  revolting  thoughts  connected 
with  the  grave  had  almost  lost  their  force  since  I  had 
seen  this  one.  The  life  was  not  gone.  Its  influence  was 
yet  hallowed,  and  the  very  mortality  that  once  enveloped 
it  seemed  living,  too,  as  the  evening  sun  cast  its  last 
beams  upon  the  fresh,  fragrant  mound. 

"I  feel  that  she  and  I  are  nearer  together  now,  Mr. 
Ramla,  than  we  wus  whin  she  lef  me.  'Twon't  be  long 
'fore  thar'U  be  two  like  this,"  touching  the  grave,  "an' 
thin  we'll  finish  up  yonder  the  life  we  begun  here. 
Won't  you  come  here  sometimes  thin  an'  see  that  the 
flowers  cover  her? — don't  matter  'bout  me." 

I  promised.  The  old  man  was  a  Christian,  safe  in 
his  hopes  of  a  new  life  with  his  sweetheart  in  the  be- 
yond. 

"I  dunno  what  we'll  do  up  thar,  but  somehow 
'twouldn't  be  nat'ral  ef  we  couldn't  gether  flowers  an' 
sit  on  the  mountain  an'  talk  like  we  useter.  They  talk 
er  heap  'bout  heb'n  bein'  gold  an'  pearls  an'  the  like, 
but  I  never  had  no  gold  nor  pearls,  an'  'twouldn't  seem 
nat'ral.  You  know  I  think  it's  somethin'  like  'tis  here, 
but  ever'body  loves  wun  another ;  an'  thim  that  loved 
so  much  here  goes  together  an'  thar  ain't  no  trouble — 
jes'  peace." 

I  told  him  I  thought  there  might  be  mountains  cov- 


112  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

ered  with    flowers    there,  where  he    raight  sit  and  talk, 
and  I  was  sure  there  would  be  love  and  peace. 

He  left  me,  and  I  sat  alone  with  the  grave  and  my 
thoughts.  It  was  possibly  nine  o'clock  when  I  heard  a 
step  approach.  I  did  not  move,  though  I  thought  it 
might  be  Callaway.  This  time,  however,  it  was  the  ap- 
parition, in  his  weird  dress.  The  man  came  and  sat  be- 
side me. 

"You  have  decided  to  rest,"  he  said.  "It  is  well; 
you  need  rest.  You  have  done  a  good  work  here  and 
gained  many  friends.  In  all  my  watch  of  you,  I  have 
found  no  evil  work,  no  selfish  motive." 

"I  thank  you  for  that,"  I  said,  "and  I  value  it  more 
coming  from  you  than  from  any  other  person,  because 
you  have  kept  close  surveillance  over  me." 

"I  have  about  decided  upon  my  course  with  refer- 
ence to  a  work  that  you  will  probably  undertake  when 
you  return." 

"What  work  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 
"I  cannot  talk  to  you  about  it  now;  but  here  are 
papers  containing  a  summary  of  the  dangers  that  you 
will  encounter  in  attempting  it.  Read  them  carefully." 
1  thanked  him,  and  he  arose  to  go.  He  even  ex- 
tended his  hand,  and  took  mine  in  a  firm,  strong  grasp. 
I  left,  too,  with  strange  feelings. 

Upon  reaching  home  I  read  the  papers.  They  ad- 
vised against  the  interference  with  blind  stills.  They 
mentioned  the  secret  meetings  of  still-keepers,  their  con- 
stant guard  against  attack;  and  further  stated  that  the 
principal  distilleries  were  owned  by  one  of  the  most  in- 
fluential and  strongest  men  in  the  county,  and  that  any 
man  attempting  to  interfere  with  them  would  incur  his 
hatred  and  feel  his  power. 

I  left  the  next  morning,  leaving  with  Bill  a  small 
package,  and  one  for  his  mother.  In  a  day  or  two  a  let- 
ter with  an  almost  undecipherable  address  reached  me. 
It  was  from  Bill. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  113 

"Warlesky,  April  20,  1881. 
•*'Dear  Mr.  Ramla: 

''We's  sorry  you  lef  us.  i  ain  slep  sence  you  went 
fer  wurrein.  Mr.  Ramla,  you  never  had  no  bizness  leaven 
mam  an  me  no  monie.  we  never  meant  to  charge  you 
nuthin  fur  board,  mam's  powerful  put  out,  an'  so  is  i?  we 
much  obleeged  to  you  tho.  I's  doing  wonderful  well  in 
school.  Miss  Blackll  is  got  more  sense  then  i  thot  she  had ; 
she  kin  lern  me  pretty  well  now.  Callaway  has  ben  hangen 
round  Mol  agin.  What  you  reckin  I  better  do  bout  it?  I'm 
fraid  she'll  love  him,  an  I  know  he  don  love  her.  i  wish 
gals  had  sum  sense.  What  you  think  bout  this  letter,  aint 
it  fine  for  me?  jes  tliink  er  year  ago  I  couldn't  no  more  a 
rit  this  lettter  than  man  can  beet  me  tradin.  You  is  the 
cause  of  my  ritin,  Mr.  Ramla,  you  an  my  sense,  both  of  us 
orter  be  proud,  make  haste  come  back.  'Scuse  spellin  an 
ritin  same  as  I'll  do  whin  you  rites  to  me.     Be  sure  to  rite. 

Your  bes'  friend.  Bill. 

''P.  S.  Fesser  looks  mighty  bad.  i  think  he'll  be  sick 
fore  long.  I's  goin  ter  speak  at  commencement,  you  mus 
be  sure  to  hear  me." 

I  was  more  broken  down  than  I  thought.  When  I 
gave  myself  up  to  rest  I  could  not  rest.  I  wanted 
excitement  and  change  all  the  time.  There  is  no  more 
nervous  state  than  this.  My  wife  said  positively  that  I 
should  not  go  back,  and  every  other  plea  failing,  resort- 
ed to  the  one  that  would  most  affect  me.  It  was  due  to 
her,  she  said,  that  I  should  at  least  live,  and  she  thought 
it  was  due  to  her  that  I  should  regard  her  wishes  and 
contribute  to  her  happiness  by  staying  at  home.  I  knew 
her  generous  heart  too  well  not  to  know  that  she  wa^ 
thinking  of  my  good  alone.  But  I  felt  the  truth  of  the 
argument,  and  almost  determined  to  remain.  I  wrote  to 
my  friend  and  told  bim  so,  but  destroyed  the  letter.  I 
told  my  wife  what  I  had  done,  and  then  said  to  her : 

"My  brave,  true  wife,  a  man  and  his  family  must 
both  suffer  sometimes  for  the  good  they  may  do;  the 
cause  of  the  many  is  always  greater  than  the  cause  of 
the  few.  There  is  a  country  where  no  work  can  sepa- 
rate us ;  but  here  there  must  be  partings  and  pain.  I 
will  not  sacrifice  you  more  than  you  are  willing  to 
be  sacrificed;  but  you  will  stay  here  and  care  for  the 
home  and  the  little  one  while  I  am  gone.  I  know  you 
will." 


114  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

I  wrote  my  friend  that  I  would  come  back  as  soon 
as  I  was  physically  able  to  do  so. 

My  daughter,  then  sixteen  years  old,  became  very 
much  interested  in  the  work  and  in  my  accounts  of  the 
crackers.  She  was  especially  touched  with  the  old 
man's  story;  the  sentiment  of  his  life  affected  her  as 
sentiment  always  affects  young  people,  and  she  wished 
to  visit  the  well-kept  grave  and  its  guardian.  We  de- 
cided that  she  should  go  to  the  Walesca  school.  My 
wife  felt  better  satisfied  on  my  account,  but  she  was 
fearful  for  our  daughter.  I  told  her  that  Katherine 
could  do  a  noble  work  there,  and  be  in  no  danger  of 
contamination. 

I  did  not  return  to  commencement,  but  my  friend 
wrote  me  a  very  amusing  account  of  Bill's  effort.  Bill 
said  he  was  too  big  to  speak  with  the  little  folks,  but 
that  he  was  going  to  speak  on  speakers'  day  anyway. 
So,  in  order  to  please  him,  my  friend  consented,  and  ex- 
pected to  announce  why  it  was  so  arranged  before  Bill 
spoke.  He  had  invited  Colonel to  deliver  an  ad- 
dress, but  Bill  became  so  excited  over  the  honor  of 
speaking  during  the  commencement  in  which  the 
Colonel  would  address  the  school  that  he  could  not  wait 
for  his  time  to  come,  and  when  the  Colonel  entered  the 
room,  Bill  rushed  upon  the  stage  and  introduced  himself 
by  saying:  "  'Fessor  has  not  told  me  it  is  time  to  speak 
yet,  but  I  think  'Fessor  is  so  excited  that  he  has  furgot- 
ten  it,  so  I  will  interduce  myself.     I  will  speak  first  and 

Colonel  will  follow."     And  before  he  could  be 

stopped,  he  delivered  his  speech. 

This  was  not  like  Bill,  but  no  dependence  is  to  be 
put  in  a  man  who  is  receiving  his  first  honor;  his 
conduct  cannot  be  judged  by  his  past  life ;  he  is  an  hon- 
or man,  and  his  actions  in  announcing  this  fact  to  the 
public  are  sometimes  Insane.  Perhaps  it  was  well  that 
Bill  did  not  realize  the  real  honor.  He  was  the  first 
cracker  in  all  that  section  to  display  a  desire  for  learn- 
ing. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  115 

Bill  himself  wrote  me  of  his  debut  as  a  speaker : 
"Mr.  Ramla,  I  acted  the  goose,    but  I  made  er  good 

speech;  lots  o'  folki  said  it  WU8.     It  wus  better  than 

Colonel '8." 

In  six  months  from  the  time  I  had  left  I  returned 

with  renewed  energy  to  the  work,   taking  my  daughter 

with  me. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Callaway  was  the  first  person  I  saw  on  reaching 
Walesca.  He  wore  the  military  uniform  of  the  school. 
After  I  had  seen  my  friend  and  exchanged  greetings 
"with  him,  I  said  to  him : 

"My  dear  friend,  what  does  this  mean?  I  see  Cal- 
laway here  in  the  uniform  of  your  cadets ;  surely  he  is 
not  in  school  again?" 

*'Yes,  he  is  in  school.  You  know  we  did  not  expel 
him ;  his  return  was  conditioned  upon  his  behavior  after 
he  left  here." 

''And  do  you  offer  a  premium  on  vice?  Has  his  be- 
havior not  been  sufficiently  vicious  to  debar  him  from 
entering  any  respectable  school  in  the  United  States?" 

"I  think  not;  I  know  of  nothing  except  that  I  fear 
he  has  tried  to  prejudice  Mol  against  Bill.  That  has 
been  bad  of  course,  but  I  think  Callaway  really  loves 
Mol." 

"Do  you  remember  that  Bill  and  I  had  our  lives  en- 
dangered on  the  mountain  one  night,  and  that  Callaway 
certainly  must  have  been  one  of  the  men  who  fired  at 
us?" 

**I  remember  the  circumstance,  but  it  could  not  be 
proven  that  Callaway  was  the  man,  and  there  is  very 
great  doubt  of  H;  you  must  have  been  mistaken;  he 
proved  an  alibi." 

"To  the  satisfaction  of  the  court  and  to  your  satis- 
faction, it  seems." 

"My  dear  fellow, you  are  prejudiced.  Callaway  has  not 
been  the  raical  you  think, though  he  certainly  has  been  a 
very  corrupt  boy.  That  is  partly  why  I  took  him  back, 
to  try  to  exert  a  good  influence ;  life  is  worth  little  if  we 

116 


DOWN  AMONG    THE  CRACKERS  117 

may  not  stoop  now  and  then  to  lift  a  fellow- creature 
from  the  slums." 

"Reforming  low  characters  is  a  good  work,  but 
placing  them  where  they  may  influence  others  for  evil 
and  overthrow  the  work  of  years  in  a  day  is  not  wise. 
Callaway  can  in  a  single  term  counteract  all  the  good  you 
have  done  here  in  four  years." 

"That  is  true,  but  we  will  keep  a  close  watch  over 
him.  The  crackers  are  not  good  people,  and  yet  we  are 
bending  every  energy  to  bring  them  here." 

"Their  meanness  is  all  open,"  I  said,  "and  it  is  due 
largely  to  ignorance  ;  they  are  not  skilled  rascals." 

"I  have  never  before  known  you  to  be  so  bitter 
about  anything.  What  is  the  matter,  my  good  friend? 
I  am  sorry  if  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  taking  Callaway 
back." 

"You  may  have  done  right,  I  cannot  tell.  It  is 
somewhat  a  personal  matter  with  me.  A  manlike  Cal- 
laway is  attractive  to  some  girls ;  young  girls  are  very 
susceptible,  and  my  daughter  is  here  ;  she  will  probably 
be  in  Callaway's  class,  and  I  would  not  for  the  world 
have  a  man  of  his  caliber  win  her  heart." 

"I  should  have  thought  of  that;  forgive  me.  But 
you  need  not  fear ;  your  daughter  could  never  fancy  a 
man  of  his  stamp." 

"That  is  kind,  my  dear  fellow,  but  it  is  not  comfort- 
ing ;  I  know  girls  better  than  you  do.  But  do  not  let  it 
worry  you  ;  I  can  take  Katherine  home  at  anytime.  It 
has  been  foolish  in  me  to  speak  as  I  have ;  but  the  un- 
expected sight  of  Callaway  excited  me." 

The  next  day  I  went  home  with  Bill.  He  was  de- 
lighted to  see  me,  but  I  saw  he  was  depressed. 

"Mr.  Ramla,  what  you  reckin  'Fessor's  thinkin' 
*bout  ter  let  Callaway  come  ter  school?  I'll  have  ter 
quit,  I  s'pect.  That  boy  an'  me'll  have  er  fight  'fore 
two  days.  Mighty  sorry  o'  it.  Iwas  jes'  thinkin'  'bout 
goin'  clean  through  college." 

"I  hope  Callaway  will    not    give    you    any    more 


118  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

trouble,  Bill ;  my  friend  tells  me  that  he  professes  to 
have  changed  his  course  of  life,  and  it  may  be  true. 
Certainly  I  would  not  leave  school  until  he  gave  me 
cause." 

**I  don't  think  'Fessor  ought  ter  'a'  done  that,  'caze 
the  school's  fur  us  poor  boys  who  never  had  no  chance 
'fore,  an'  Callaway  kin  go  somewhar  else ;  he's  got  mon- 
ey, they  tell  me." 

''I  do  not  suppose.  Bill,  that  there  is  another  school 
in  the  state  where  the  influences  are  as  wholesome  as 
here,  and  many  with  whom  money  is  no  consideration 
will  come  to  this  pure,  quiet  place  for  the  best  things  in 
life.  Callaway  needs  such  a  school  as  this,  and  if  he 
has  no  bad  associates  to  keep  him  from  reform  he  may 
become  a  worthy  man." 

"But  them  fellers  Gaines  an' Lewis  's  here  too." 

**I  did  not  know  that ;  I  do  not  understand  my 
friend." 

After  seeing  Mrs.CoUins  and  the  children  I  went  back 
to  Walesca  and  talked  to  the  president  of  the  college 
again. 

"I  have  started  out  in  the  world  to  help  it,"  said 
my  friend,  "and  with  consecration  to  such  a  service  in 
my  heart  I  could  not  refuse  to  take  these  boys.  Gaines' 
parents  are  dead;  his  sister  is  a  poor  girl  who  is  teach- 
ing to  support  herself  and  brother,  and  to  educate  him. 
She  is  an  ambitious  girl,  and  very  worthy.  Gaines  has 
had  to  leave  three  schools,  and  his  sister  came  to  me  in 
tears  to  beg  me  to  admit  him  here.  What  would  you 
have  done?" 

"What  you  did,"  I  promptly  replied. 

"Well,  Lewis'  character  has  been  vile;  his  mother 
is  almost  in  her  grave  on  account  of  it.  She  would  not 
ask  me  to  take  him  here  because  of  the  imposition  upon 
the  school,  but  her  pastor  came  to  me  and  advised  me  to 
try  the  boy  again;  he  is  here  on  probation, and  knows  it. 
Callaway's  parents  are  wealthy  and  people  of  some  influ- 
ence.    His  father  told  me  plainly  something  of  his   life. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  119 

He  attempted  to  forge  his  father's  name,  and  the  crime 
was  with  difficulty  kept  from  the  public.  He  has  been 
guilty  of  other  offenses,  and  his  father  wants  him  kept 
from  temptation  for  awhile." 

He  arose  and  walked  across  the  room  with  a  nervous 
tread.  He  looked  so  careworn  that  I  was  ashamed  of 
increasing  his  worries. 

*'You  are  a  thousand  times  better  than  I,  my  dear 
fellow,  and  you  are  right.  I  am  unworthy  to  fill  your 
place  for  a  day.  But  you  must  have  rest.  Go,  and 
leave  me  here.'' 

He  refused  to  go,  however,  and  I  found  afterwards 
that  it  was  on  account  of  the  three  dangerous  characters 
who  had  just  entered  school.  He  had  taken  the  respon- 
sibility of  having  them  there,  and  he  must  bear  it  alone ; 
it  meant  personal  sacrifice  to  him. 

That  afternoon  I  took  my  daughter  to  the  grave  on 
the  mountain.  We  found  the  old  man  and  his  charge, 
and  I  left  my  daughter  with  him,  so  that  I  might  not 
embarrass  him  in  telling  his  story,  and  when  I  came  back 
I  knew  he  had  told  it. 

I  took  Katherine  to  Mrs.  Collins'.  Bill  called  me 
aside  and  said : 

"Mr.  Ramla,  you  certainly  is  got  er  purty  daugh- 
ter." 

"Katherine,"  I  said,  on  our  way  back  to  Walesca, 
"what  is  your  impression  of  the  crackers? — and  what 
hope  do  you  see  for  the  work?" 

"Every  hope,  father.  They  are  susceptible  of  the 
highest  improvement.  Nothing  could  be  brighter  than 
Bill's  wit,  and  his  peculiar  originality  will  certainly 
make  him  prominent  some  day.  I  am  confident  of  your 
entire  success  here,  and  I  want  to  help  you  if  you  will 
let  me." 

We  went  the  next  day  to  see  Mol.  I  hoped  that  my 
daughter  might  have  a  happy  influence  over  her.  The 
poor  girl  seemed  subdued  and  looked  not  like  herself. 

*'Miss  Mol,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  happy,  peaceful 
life  since  I  left." 


120  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'Thar  ain't  been  much  peace  an'  no  hap'ness,  Mr. 
Ramla." 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?" 

**Well,  Bill  «n'  Mr.  Callaway  ag'in.  They  don't 
let  me  have  no  peace;  an'  now  they's  in  school  t'gether. 
Ireckin  wun  o'  'm  '11  be  kilt  soon.  Miss  Katherine, 
does  boys  pester  you?" 

Katherine  laughed  in  her  girlish  way,  and  her  man- 
ner told  better  than  her  words  that  she  had  had  no  ex- 
perience with  young  men. 

We  went  to  see  the  old  maids.  I  had  been  many 
times  gince  that  first  visit  with  Bill,  and  they  always  re- 
ceived me  kindly.  I  was  much  surprised  to  see  the  old 
bachelor  sitting  in  front  of  the  door  smoking. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Quinn.  Miss  Betsy  has 
relented,  I  see,  and  allows  you  to  visit  her." 

"Worser 'n  that.  Betsy,  come  here;  Mr.  Ramla's 
back." 

Miss  Betsy,  looking  happier  than  I  had  ever  seen  her, 
came  to  the  door. 

*'This  's  my  wife,  Mr.  Ramla." 

*'Your  wife!  Miss  Betsy,  surely  this  is  not 
true!" 

"Reckin 'tis,  though  it 'pears  mighty  strange;  I 
stop  an'  think  sometimes  what  it  do  mean." 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Quinn,  how  you  won  her,"  I  said. 
**But,  first,  Miss  Betsy,  I  would  like  to  speak  to  Miss 
Jane  and  Miss  Ann." 

"Ah!  that's  how  it  come  'bout,  Mr.  Ramla.  They 
ain't  no  more." 

"Why,  Miss  Betsy!" 

"They  done  dead.  They  lef  me  two  month  ago. 
Jane  wus  out  in  the  field  plowin',  an'  she  wus  jes'  tuk 
suddint-like,  an'  drap'd  off.  Me  an'  Ann  brought  her 
ter  the  house,  an'  she  had  er  sorter  chill,  an'  yit  'twon't 
er  chill.  Dunno  what  wus  the  matter;  she  jes'  drap'd 
off.  An'  thin  'bout  er  month  arter,  Ann  wus  tuk  purty 
much  the  same,  an'  she  drap'd  off  too.     They  never  lef 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CllACKERS  121 

no  word,  an'  I  feel  pow'fullonesonie.  'Pears  ter  me  I'd 
feel  pearter  ef  they'd  tele  me  somethin'  'fore  they  went; 
but  you  dunno  'bout  these  things,  Mr.  Ramla ;  you 
dunno." 

"Truly,  Miss  Betsy,  we  do  not  know  the  hows  nor 
the  whys  of  these  things  now.  Some  day  we  shall  know, 
however,  and  I  hope  then  we  shall  be  satisfied  with  the 
knowledge." 

"Well,  I  won't  satisfied  much  whin  they  lef ,  an'  I 
ain't  yit,  though  I's  better  pleased.  Wun  evenin',  while 
I  wus  sittin'  here  mopin'  an'  wonderin'  what  I'd  do,  Mr. 
Quinn  come  walkin'  up,  an'  he  looked  kinder  sorrowful, 
like  he  sym'thized  'ith  me,  an'  somehow  I  couldn't  tell 
him  ter  go  off.  Thin  he  said,  'Miss  Betsy,  I's  been 
livin'  by  you  twenty  year,  an'  I  ain't  never  thought 
it  necessary  to  come  over  an'  offer  you  no  sarvice ; 
'peared  like  you  could  take  keer  o'  yerself .  But  now 
Miss  Jane  and  Miss  Ann's  done  gone  an'  dead,  'peared 
like  ter  me,  Miss  Betsy,  you  orter  have  somebody  to 
look  arter  you  an'  help  you  'tend  ter  the  place.'  I  said, 
'I  reckin'  I  kin  'tend  ter  the  place,  Mr.  Quinn.'  'Well, 
I  ain't  thinkin'  much  o'  the  place,'  he  said,  'but  who's 
goin'  ter  'tend  ter  you?'  'Guess  I  kin  take  keer  o'  my- 
self, too;  I  done  it  fur  forty  year.'  'Miss  Betsy,'  he 
said,  'somebody  '11  be  here  'fore  Sat'day  night  ter  pester 
you.  You'll  have  ter  wuk  all  day  an'  sit  up  all  night 
ter  keep  'm  from  takin'  yer  money ;  an'  thin,  not  speak- 
in'  o'  the  place,  but  kin  you  plow  an'  hoe  an'  plant  an' 
gether  corn  an'  pick  cotton  an'  cut  grass  an'  go  ter  mill 
an'  feed  the  steer  an'  cook  an'  go  ter  town  an'  wash  an'  sell 
the  craps,  an'  all  by  yerself?  It's  er  mighty  big  thing  ter 
take  keer  o'  er  big  place  like  this  all  by  yerself.'  'Well, 
I  kno?vr  that,  Mr.  Quinn,'  I  said;  'ain't  I  been  helpin' 
take  keer  o'  it  long  'nough  ter  know  it's  er  big  thing? 
But  what  you  'spect  me  ter  do?  I  don't  mean  ter  sell 
none  o'  it,  an'  I  don't  'spect  ter  give  it  'way,  an'  what's 
more  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  employ  nobody  ter  come  here  an' 
waste  what  me    an'   Jane  an'  Ann  work'd  so  hard  fur. 


122  DOWN   AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

No  use  ter  bother  talkin'  'bout  it.'  'Miss  Betsy,'  he 
said,  kinder  stammerin'-like,  'I'd  come  over  an'  help 
you  fur  nothin',  an' I  wouldn't  waste  nothin'  neither.^ 
'That's  very  kind,  Mr.  Quinn,'  I  said,  'but  I  don't  want 
nobody  ter  do  nothin'  fur  me  'thout  I  pays  'em.  Be- 
sides, you  ain't  never  had  no  'sperience  farmin'.  What 
you  know  'bout  it?  You  been  over  yonder  pickin' 
blackberries  all  yer  life,  an'  you  never  see  craps  growin' 
'thout  you  come  ter  the  fence  an'  see  mine.'  'Miss 
Betsy,  thar's  some  things  folks  can't  have  no  'sperience 
'bout.  I  ain't  much  o'  er  farmer,  it's  so,  an'  it's  neces- 
sary fur  good  craps ;  but  kin  er  man  have  'sperience 
takin'  keer  o'  er  wife  'fore  he  marries  the  fust  time?  I 
think  he  kin  do  'bout  as  well  'thout  't  's  'ith  it;  least- 
wise most  wimmen  folks  'd  ruther  have  er  bachelor  'n 
er  widower.  Now,  Miss  Betsy,  jes  try  me,  an'  I'll  make 
the  bes'  husband  you  ever  seed.'  'Ef  that's  what  you 
come  fur  you'd  better  go  home,'  I  said;  but  the  ole  man 
got  down  on  his  rheumatic  knees,  an'  he  begged  so 
hard  I  didn't  think  I  orter  treat  him  bad,  so  I  said,  'Ef 
you  think  you  kin  be  enny  help  ter  me  (I'm  practical 
like),  I'll  take  pity  on  you  Mr.  Quinn,  an'  we'll  marry, 
I  reckin'." 

"Till  him  what  I  did  thin,  Betsy,"  said  her  hus- 
band. 

*'You  made  er  goose  o'  yerself." 

*'Law!  I  didn't  think  geese  like  ter  kiss;  but 
Betsy's  alius  teachin'  me  somethin',  Mr.  Ramla,"  the 
old  man  said. 

His  wife  blushed.  "You  need  ter  be  taught  er  lot 
o'  things.  He  ain't  much  help  ter  me.  Well,  he  wus 
so  'fraid  I'd  back  out  he  went  over  an'  got  the  preacher 
the  nex'  day,  an'  we  wus  wed.  Come  in,  you  an'  your 
darter,  an'  rest  er  bit.  I  clean  furgot  you  wus  standin' 
all  this  time.  My  old  man  makes  me  'most  furgit  my- 
self sometimes.     Butl's  tole  you  'nough  'bout  him." 

"Thar's  wun  thing  you  ain't  tole  him,  Betsy,  an* 
that  is  you  wus  mighty  glad  ter  git  me." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

We  left  the  happy  pair.  Mr  Quian  walked  with  us 
to  the  gate. 

"I  can't  help  Betsy  much,  you  know;  rheumatiz  's 
too  bad,  but  I  kin  'vise  her  'bout  the  place ;  I  kin  take 
keer  o't  whin  she's  gone,  an'  help  her  whin  she's  here; 
an'  I  tell  you  it's  better'n  pickin'  berries  an'  bein'  all  by 
yerself.  Mr.  Ramla,  thar  ain't  nothin'  like  havin'  er 
companion,  'specially  sech  er  businesslike  companion  's 
Betsy." 

We  finished  the  round  of  visits.  Katherine  was  de- 
lighted. It  was  new  to  her,  and  she  could  even  bo 
amused  by  the  ignorance  of  the  crackers,  while  I  was 
pained.  She  became  more  serious  afterward  and  was 
the  greatest  help  to  me. 

Katherine  entered  school  in  the  sophomore  class. 
Callaway,  Gaines  and  Lewis  were  all  in  the  freshman 
class.  They  gave  no  trouble,  my  friend  told  me.  Bill 
became  accustomed  to  their  presence  and  all  went  on 
smoothly.     But  Katherine  one  day  said  to  me: 

"Father,  I  wish  those  boys  were  not  in  school;  I 
believe  they  are  deceiving  the  president,  and  he  is  too 
good  a  man  to  suffer  in  this  way." 

I  asked  if  she  knew  any  way  in  which  they  had  de- 
ceived him.  She  said  no,  it  was  more  an  impression  on 
her  part  than  actual  knowledge;  other  students  shared 
the  impression,  however.  I  told  her  that  they  had  been 
somewhat  dissipated,  and  I  supposed  that  was  why 
cveryon*^  suspected  them. 

*'I  did  not  know  they  had  been  wild,"  she  replied. 

She  had  little  time  for  visiting  with  me  now.  But 
sometimes  on  Saturdays  she   had  permission  to  go  with 

123 


124  DOWN   AMONG  THB  CRACKERS 

me,  and  was  a  wonderful  help.  People  learned  to  know 
and  to  love  her.  They  expected  her  every  Saturday 
and  always  complained  if  she  was  not  with  me. 

"Katherine,"  I  said,  "you  are  doing  more  good 
than  I;"  but  she  only  Kughed. 

I  thought  she  might  persuade  Mol  to  enter  school, 
but  Mol  was  very  hard  to  influence.  She  loved  Kather- 
ine,  though,  and  liked  to  be  with  her.  She  told  her  all 
her  troubles  with  Bill  and  Callaway,  and  really  gave  a 
reasonable  excuse  for  not  entering  school : 

"You  see,  I'd  be  thar  all  the  time,  and  Mr.  Calla- 
way an'  Bill  'd  sure  have  er  fuss.  'Twouldn't  be 
good  fur  us,  an'  'twouldn't  be  good  fur  the  school." 

Katherine  told  her  that  she  was  wrong  to  care  at 
all  for  Callaw^ay,  but  she  only  said : 

"I  ain't  never  said  I  did,"  and  would  not  commit 
herself. 

Bill  was  progressing  with  his  studies.  He  had  en- 
tered the  preparatory  department  and  the  corps  of 
cadets.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  uniform  and  military 
training.  Cadets  were  required  to  salute  members  of 
the  faculty  at  thirty  paces,  and  Bill  was  so  careful  in 
the  exercise  of  this  courtesy  that  hardly  one  of  the 
faculty  but  would  walk  sixty  paces  off  to  keep  from 
constantly  making  the  salute.  Bill  would  invariably, 
however,  walk  thirty  paces  to  meet  them. 

One  day  he  went  to  Canton,  Georgia,  and  met  one 
of  his  acquaintances  on  the  street. 

"Good  morning,  Bill,"  the  friend  said. 

Bill  gave  the  military  salute.  The  friend  thought 
it  strange  that  he  did  not  speak,  and  took  no  notice  of 
the  salute.  He  met  Bill  again  and  the  same  thing  oc- 
curred.    He  met  him  the  third  time  and  said: 

"Look  here,  Bill  Collins.  I  have  met  you  three 
times  to-day  and  said  good  morning  each  time,  and  you 
haven't  spoken  yet.     What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Didn't  you  see  me  do  this?"  said  Bill,  making  the 
salute. 

"Yes." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  126 

''Well,  that  means  good  mornin'  at  Warlesky ;  I 
thought  you  Canton  folks  had  some  sense." 

One  day  Bill  said  to  me: 

"Let's  walk  out  on  the  mountain;  here's  where  I 
fust  met  you,  an'  here's  whar  I's  always  settled  things 
fur  good.  I've  been  thinkin'  lately,  Mr.  Ramla — doin' 
erpow'ful  lot  er  thinkin' — an' I  'bout  come  ter  the  con- 
clusion that  I  ain't  what  I  thought  I  wus." 

''What  do  you  mean,  Bill?" 

"Well,  the  smartest  man  in  this  country.  Plenty 
folks  's  got  more  sense  'n  me,  an'  I's  worried  'bout  my- 
self. I's  been  goin'  'bout  the  country  thinkin'  I  wus 
the  smartest  man  in  it,  an'  boastin'  'bout  what  I 
know'd.  I  acted  like  er  goose  whin  I  spoke  at  com- 
mencement last  year,  an'  'Fessor  was  so  patient  like  an' 
good  ter  me.  'Fessor  gits  up  ever'  day  or  two  an'  tells 
us  how  every wun  o'  us  orter  bless  the  world,  an'  how 
we  kin  do  it.  I'd  jes  like  ter  know  how  I  kin  bless  the 
world.  I's  lived  twenty-two  years,  an'  I  ain't  never 
done  nothin'  fur  it  yet.  I  didn't  use  ter  pay  no  'ten- 
tion  ter  'Fessor  whin  he  talked  that  way,  but  I's  been 
thinkin'  lately  'bout  what  he's  doin'  an'  you,  Mr.  R»mla, 
an'  I  don't  see  no  hope  fur  me  ter  never  do  nothin';  I 
ain't  fittin'.  I  I'arn  purty  well,  they  sey.  'Fessor  eeys 
thar  never  wus  no  boy  here  but  me  who  went  from  the 
alphabet  ter  the  preparatory  department  in  er  year,  an' 
he's  got  great  hopes  o'  me;  but  I  think  he  jes'  seys  't 
'caze  he's  so  kind  an'  can't  help  frum  makin'  people 
feel  good,  an'  'caze  he's  so  b'lievin'  he  thinks  good  o' 
ever'body ;  an'  thin  he's  so  hopeful-like  he's  alius 
thinkin'  thar  ain't  nothin'  but  good  comin'.  I  really 
think  'Fessor  'd  be  s'prised  ef  we  didn't  all  git  ter 
heaven.  Now,  I  want  you  ter  tell  me  how  I  kin  be  er 
better  boy  an'  how  I  kin  bless  the  world." 

"Have  you  forgotten  what  you  said  to  me  coming 
home  from  the  moonshiner's  when  his   child  was  sick?" 

"Naw,  I  ain't  furgot  that;  an'  I  want  ter  be  un- 
selfish an'  do  things  fur  folks,  but  what  kin  I  do?  I 
ain't  fit  ter  do  nothin'." 


Ii6  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'Your  principle  then  was  right.  Self-sacrifice  is 
the  basis  of  all  help  we  may  render  the  world.  We  can 
give  the  world  nothing  but  ourselves.  But  before 
we  can  do  this  we  must  make  the  self  a  worthy  gift — 
have  something  to  sacrifice.  Your  condition  is  much 
better  now  than  when  I  talked  to  you  last." 

And  I  outlined  to  him  the  life  that  he  should  live^ 
according  to  my  interpretation  of  life,  and  the  specific 
work  I  thought  he  should  do. 

Bill  fully  realized  his  condition  and  the  condition 
of  his  people,  and  determined  not  only  to  make  a  man  of 
himself,  but  to  lift  his  class  from  their  miserable  condi> 
tion  to  a  higher  life. 

" 'Twouldn't  seem  right,  you  see,  Mr.  Ramla,  fur 
me  ter  rise  above  my  folks,  they  must  come  'long  too." 

He  went  with  me  the  next  Saturday  to  see  a  num- 
ber whom  we  had  seen  many  times  before,  and  who  had 
always  refused  to  consider  the  possibilities  of  their  lives. 

Bill  said  to  one:  ''John,  you  dunno  nothin'  'bout 
life;  I  don't  know  nothin'  yit,  but  I's  I'arnin',  you  see,, 
an'  that's  the  only  dif 'rence  between  you  an'  me.  You'd 
better  come  'long  an'  I'arn,  too." 

''Bill  Collins,  you  needn't  come  preachin'  ter  me 
like  you  had  enny  right  ter,  like  you's  better'n  other 
folks.  Ain't  I  been  loafin'  'ith  you  all  my  life,  an'  ain*t 
I  beat  you  in  meny  er  race,  an'  ain't  folks  sed  I  wus  the 
bes'  man  o'  us  two  in  er  fight,  an'  ain't  I  sold  more  splin- 
ters 'n  you,  an'  got  more  money,  an'  chawed  more  t'bacco? 
an'  thin  you  come  tryin'  ter  teach  me. — :Git  'way,  boy." 

"You  rascal,  naw,  'tain'tso,"  said  Bill;  "ever'body 
knows  I's  been  the  bes'  man  all  the  time,  an'  ef  you. 
want  ter  prove  it  now,  jes'  git  out  in  the  road." 

*'Easy,"  said  the  boy;  "I  never  sed  'twus  so.  I 
axed  you,  ain't  what  I  said  so.     Don't  you  know  it?" 

"Naw,"  said  Bill,  "I  don't  know  'tis  so." 

"Thin,  you  dunno  all  that  stuff  you's  tellin'  me 
'bout  your  I'arnin'  an'  1  orter  Tarn  is  so.  'Tain't  been 
proved.     I  don't  see  no  dif  rence  in  you;  you   jes'   's. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEKS  127 

ready  ter  fight  's  you  uster  wus,  an'  it  don't  'pear  ter 
me  that  folks  that  don't  hold  their  temper  tight  's  goin' 
ter  do  much  fur  the  world;  an'  the  leetle  bit  er  epellin' 
an'  readin'  you  kin  do  ain't  a-goin'  ter  help  it;  it  kin 
git  'long  jes'  's  well  'thout  it.  But  I  jes'  wanted  ter  se© 
ef  you  really  is  changed,  an'  I  know'd  the  bee'  thing 
ter  git  you  on  wus  er  fight.  You'b  er  better  man  'n  me, 
Bill,  an'  alius  wus." 

Poor  Bill ! 

"That's  the  way  'tis,  Mr.  Ramla ;  I  tole  you  I 
couldn't  do  nothin',  'caze  I  ainH  nothin'." 

I  tried  to  reassure  him,  and  told  him  of  the  failures 
that  come  to  every  life  before  it  is  strong  and  firm  and 
fixed.     But  he  was  easily  disheartened. 

**John,  you's  right;  I  ain't  changed  's  much  's  I 
thought  I  had,  but  the  nex'  time  you  see  me  you's  goin' 
ter  see  er  dif 'rent  boy,  an'  the  nex'  time  I  speak  ter  you 
you'll  think  you  orter  hear  me." 

And  Bill  went  home,  somewhat  gloomy,  but  hopeful. 

I  went  to  see  some  of  the  gold-washers,  and  Mr. 
Sims  had  decided  to  send  one  of  his  children  to  school. 

"I'll  jes'  try  wun  o'  'm  an'  see  how  't  wuks  an'  ef 
't  do  all  right  I'll  send  t'others." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

On  my  way  home  I  sat  down  to  rest  and  to  think 
over  the  work  that  had  been  accomplished  among  the 
crackers.  While  I  sat  thus,  I  heard  voices,  and  recog- 
nized those  of  Callaway  and  Lewis. 

* 'Lewis,  I  have  done  pretty  well  I  think.  I  have 
been  here  three  months  this  time  and  haven't  been 
caught.  I  have  done  nothing  really  bad,  though  ;  break- 
ing a  little  rule  now  and  then  amounts  to  nothing,  and 
a  fellow  can't  be  bound  down  so  tight.  But,  hon- 
estly, I  am  surprised  at  myself ;  I  never  was  as  good  be- 
fore. Professor  is  so  good  himself,  and  he  talks  so 
sometimes  that  I  almost  feel  like  being  a  Christian." 

**Callaway  you  talk  like  a  girl;  it  doesn't  effect 
me  so." 

Lewis  was  worse  than  Callaway ;  this  was  a  revela- 
tion to  me. 

* 'Professor  is  a  good  man,  Callaway,  but  what  of 
this  other  fellow  that  is  living  among  the  crackers?" 

"I  have  my  doubts  about  him.  He  pries  into  other 
people's  affairs  too  much ;  somebody  else  has  doubts 
about  him  too.  A  man  has  been  watching  him  ever 
since  he  has  been  here ,  and  if  he  doesn't  mind  he'll  be 
trapped  yet.  Let's  find  out  who  the  watchman  is ;  I'd 
give  a  lot  to  know;  he  might  watch  us  some  day. 
Ramla  generally  comes  here  in  the  afternoon,  and  this 
man  is  always  about  when  he  is  here.  He  must  be  paid 
for  his  job,  because  he  loses  a  lot  of  time.  Suppose  we 
sit  down  a  while  and  wait  for  the  two;"  and  they  sat 
very  near  me  on  an  old  log. 

I  went  to  where  they  were  sitting,  and  spoke  to 
them  pleasantly,  as  if  I  had  heard  nothing. 

128 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  129 

*'We  are  resting  from  the  hunt,  Mr.  Ramla.  Pro- 
fessor gave  us  permission  to  hunt  to-day,  and  we  have 
had  fine  success,"  said  Callaway,  holding  up  a  dozen 
partridges.     "How  long  have  you  been  on  the  mountain?" 

"An  hour  or  more,"  I  said;   and  he  flushed. 

I  asked  them  about  their  progress  in  school,  and 
they  spoke  with  interest  of  their  studies,  and  kindly  of 
the  president  of  the  school.  I  was  glad  they  did  so, 
and  feorry  that  they  did  not  like  me.  I  was  ashamed  of 
not  having  won  their  confidence;  it  was  my  fault;  I 
had  not  trusted  them.  Confidence  begets  confidence, 
and  nothing  is  such  a  lever  in  lifting  a  soul  as  simple 
trust  in  it.  How  often  had  I  heard  my  friend  say, 
*'Boy8,  I  trust  you;  I  do  not  believe  that  you  will  do 
this  evil." 

I  talked  to  these  young  men  a  long  while,  and  tried 
to  redeem  the  past.  In  my  effort  I  forgot  the  watchman, 
and  I  think  they  did  too.  But  after  a  while,  guided  by 
a  slight  sound,  we  all  looked  in  one  direction,  and  the 
tall,  gaunt  figure  was  crossing  the  mountain  and  com- 
ing towards  us. 

"Do  you  know  that  man,  Mr.  Ramla?"  asked  Lewis. 

"No;  I  have  seen  him  here  often  and  spoken  to 
him,  but  I  do  not  know  him." 

"I  think  he  is  watching  you,"  said  Callaway.  "I 
have  seen  him  a  number  of  times,  always  when  you  have 
been  here.     Aren't  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"If  he  is  really  watching  me,  I  am  not;  I  fear 
those  who  know  least  about  me  more  than  those  who 
know  me  most,  because  if  in  my  life  there  is  some  evil, 
I  trust  there  is  some  good  also." 

They  both  looked  guilty,  though  what  I  stated  was 
a  general  truth,  as  applicable  to  all  as  to  me. 

The  strange  man  passed  us  and  said,  gruffly,  "Good 
evening." 

The  boys  saw  a  covey  of  birds  just  then  and  left  me. 
I  eat  watching  the  result.  They  killed  two  or  three 
partridges,   and  then  turned  toward  the  path  the  man 


130  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

had  taken.  They  followed  close,  tracking  him  to  his 
home.  The  man  turned  several  times,  and  they  darted 
behind  trees  or  by  the  side  of  rocks.  I  was  going  to  call 
them  and  stop  the  chase,  when  the  man  turned  square- 
ly, caught  them  watching  him,  and  fired.  They  both 
ran,  but  were  unhurt.  Then  the  man  came  back  to  meet 
me. 

"Look  here,  stranger;  you  tell  the  president  of 
Reinhardt  College  that  if  he  does  not  look  after  the 
young  scamps  he  has  there,  they  will  get  killed  some  of 
these  days.  I  don't  care  about  being  known  just  now, 
and  I  am  too  much  engaged  in  other  work  to  stop  for  a 
courtroom  scene,  or  I  would  have  shot  those  boys  this 
morning.  And  let  me  tell  you^  beware  of  them ;  they 
are  the  worst  young  rascals  I  ever  saw.  I  think  one  of 
them  is  engaged  now  in  and  about  as  bad  a  traffic  as  a 
man  can  be  engaged  in." 

**I  think  they  are  reforming,"  I  said. 

"Their  history  in  reform  is  relapse,"  he  replied. 
"They  have  reformed  before." 

"Trust  them  this  time,"  I  said.  "I  think  the 
trouble  will  be  cured  under  the  wholesome  influences  of 
the  college." 

"They  are  unworthy  of  your  confidence,"  he 
replied. 

I  told  my  friend  what  had  happened.  He  ex- 
pressed regret  that  the  boys  were  so  foolish  as  to  follow 
the  man,  but  said: 

"They  meant  no  harm.  I  had  rather  trust  the  boys 
than  the  man  who  has  hounded  you.  There  is  some- 
thing doubtful  about  him,  I  am  sure.  I  would  have 
said  so  before,  but  hated  to  alarm  you.  Suppose  we  get 
a  detective  to  find  him  out." 

"Upon  the  principle  that  it  takes  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief?     I  think  he  is  a  detective." 

"Oh!  he  is  simply  watching  you  for  personal  inter- 
ests.    He  is  no  employed  detective." 

"Yes,  I    think  he   is    an   employed    detective,"    I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  131 

replied.  "But  employed  or  not,  he  could  make  a  for- 
tune in  the  business,  and  you  had  better  take  his  advice 
and  keep  even  closer  watch  over  your  three  young 
scamps  than  you  have  done." 

"Scamps  !  You  have  even  fallen  in  love  with  the 
speech  of  your  watchman." 

"No,  old  fellow.  I  have  more  confidence  in  Lewis,. 
Gaines  and  Callaway  than  I  had  when  they  entered 
school  this  term,  but  I  still  think  they  are  doubtful.  It 
would  be  easy  to  go  back  to  their  old  habits." 

"As  easy  as  for  Bill  to  go  back  to  his  old  life  and 
his  ignorance." 

"Yes,"  I  said;  and  related  the  occurrence  between 
Bill  and  the  boy  he  was  trying  to  persuade  to  come 
to  school.     We  both  laughed. 

"One  would  think  that  you  were  trying  to  reclaim 
crackers  and  I  criminals,"  he  said;  "we  are  like  chil- 
dren, each  contending  for  his  own,  when  both  have  the 
interests  of  all  at  heart." 


Bill  was  more  hopeful  of  himself  the  next  day. 

"I  think  mebbe  I'll  do  all  right  arter  while,  Mr. 
Ramla.  Now,  I  tell  you,  I  believe  I  kin  do  somethin'  by 
goin'  ter  see  Mol;  I  'spectsshe  thinks  I  have  lef  her  fur 
good  this  time,  I  ain't  been  thar  fur  so  long.  But 
I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  love  no  gal  but  Mol ;  an'  she'a 
worth  bein'  true  ter.  Enny  other  gal'd  run  er  way  an' 
married  Callaway  'fore  now,  but  I  don't  think  ehe  keers 
much  fur  him,  though  she  don't  keer  much  fur  me 
neither." 

"Yon  suppose  Callaway  has  ever  asked  her  to  run 
away  and  marry  him?"  I  asked. 

"Mol  said^he  had  three  times,"  he  answered. 

Mol  was  stronger  than  I  thought.  Few  girls  in  her 
condition  could^have  resisted  this. 

Bill  went  and  told  me  the  result  of  his  visit  the  next 
morning. 


132  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"I  went  in  same  's  I  alius  has,  an'  Mol,  'stead  o' 
meetin'  me  like  she  useter,  sent  word  by  her  mother 
that  she'd  jes'  come  back  frum  town,  an'  wus  tired,  an' 
would  I  please  'scuse  her.  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  folks 
doin'  that  er  way,  Mr.  Ramla?  I  never  did,  an'  I  tole 
her  mother  I  didn't  reckin  I'd  tire  her  no  more'n  she 
wus,  an'  ter  please  see  me  ennyhow,  'caze  I  was  on  very 
important  bizness.  Mol  come  out  thin.  'I'd  like  ter 
know  what  important  bizness  you's  got  'ith  me,  Bill 
Collins.  You  ain't  been  ter  see  me  fur  so  long,  don't 
'pear  like  you  could  have  no  bizness  'ith  me  now.' 
*That's  why  it's  important,  Mol,  'caze  I  ain't  been  .fur 
so  long  I  wus  'fraid  you'd  furgit  me;  an'  I  don't  want 
jou  ter  furgit  me,  Mol,  whether  you  love  me  enny  more 
or  not.  You  musn't  furgit  the  old  times  and  Bill  Col- 
lins, an'  how  much  he  alius  will  love  you.'  Her  mother 
wus  in  the  other  room,  an'  she  heard  me,  an'  she  jes' 
cried  out,  an'  thin  Mol  looked  kinder-like  she  felt  bad, 
too,  an'  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  *Mol,  now  don't  cry, 
but  jes'  tell  me  you  love  me  like  you  did  wunst,  an'  I'll 
be  jes'  as  happy  's  I  usedter,  an'  you  will,  too ;  an'  we'll  go 
out  on  the  mountain  an'  gether  flowers,  an'  talk  an'  plan 
what  we  goin'  ter  do;  an'  thar  won't  nothin'  else  come 
between  us.  An'  you'll  go  ter  school  an'  I'arn,  too;  an' 
I'll  help  you,  'caze  I's  er  leetle  further  than  you,  an'  I'll 
git  through  er  year  ahead  o'  you ;  an'  I'll  go  off  an'  find 
somethin'  to  do  that  last  year  you're  in  school,  an'  I'll 
come  back  whin  you  graduate,  an'  we'll  marry  an'  live 
so  peaceable  an'  happy.  Mol,  I  think  folks  ought  ter 
live  fur  good  ter  the  world,  an'  we'll  see  bow  much  we 
kin  do,  won't  we,  Mol?'  'Well,  I  thought  't  wus  time 
you  wus  axin'  that,'  she  said,  *bein'  's  how  you's  count- 
in'  me  'n  all  your  calc'lations.'  *0f  course,  Mol,  it's 
fur  you  ter  eey,  an'  that's  what  I  ax  you  now.'  '*Naw, 
Bill ;  sometimes  I  think  I'll  love  you  like  I  useter,  but 
you  don't  consider  me;  you  wants  me  ter  go  ter  school, 
an'  I  can't  go  over  yonder  whar  you  an'  Mr.  Callaway 
is;  wun  o'  you'd  kill  the  other,  I  know.     An'  thar  ain't 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  133 

nowhar  else  here  fur  me  ter  go.'  'Well,  I  don't  think 
you  need  bother  'bout  me  an'  Callaway  bein'  thar  long 
t'gether,  'caze  he's  goin'  ter  do  somethin'  soon  ter  keep 
him  frum  stayin'  thar.'  'It's  no  use  ter  talk  that  way, 
Bill;  Mr.  Callaway  ain't  no  more  liable  ter  do  nothin' 
wrong  'n  you  or  no  other  boy.  But  that's  wun  thing 
why  I  didn't  want  ter  see  you  this  evenin', 
'caze  we  always  fuss  'bout  Mr.  Callaway,  an' 
thar  ain't  no  use  in  it.'  'Mol,  you're  the  only 
gal  I  ever  would  er  come  back  ter,  an'  I  think  you 
might  consider  me.  Talkin'  'bout  I  don't  consider  you^ 
you  don't  pay  no  'tention  'tall  ter  me.  I  will  promise  you 
two  things  now,  Mol,  without  you  axing  'm  :  I  won't  'buse 
Callaway  no  more,  an'  1  won't  fuss  with  him  if  you'll 
come  to  school.  That's  as  fair  as  you  can  want.' 
•That's  mighty  fair.  Bill;  I  doubt  ef  Mr.  Callaway  'd 
do  that  fur  you.  But  you  couldn't  hold  out,  I  know 
you  couldn't.'  I  told  her  I  could.  But  'tain't  no  use 
ter  try  ter  argue  with  Mol  wun  way  once  she's  made  up 
her  mind  'tother  way.  So  I  told  her  all  right,  enny- 
thing  she  said.  She  kinder  softened  at  that,  an'  sed  she 
had  loved  me  mighty  well,  £in'  she  certainly  did  feel  bad 
not  to  do  what  I  wanted  her — didn't  seem  natural,  she 
said,  but  she  w^us  the  gal  and  she  thought  I  orter  some- 
times do  what  she  said,  whin  'twon't  possible  fur  her 
ter  do  my  w^ay,  'specially  's  I  wus  more  anxious  ter 
marry  than  she  wus.  'Well,  Mol,  tell  me  your  way,  an' 
I'll  try  ter  do  it.'  'Thar  ain't  but  wun  thing — stop 
school  an'  let's  git  married  this  winter;  thin  thar  won't 
be  no  more  botherin.'  '  'That  looks  kinder  like  you 
wus  more  anxious  to  marry  'n  me  ;  but  I  wish  I  could  do 
it,  Mol;  I  can't,  though.'  She  got  mad  thin  an'  sed  she 
won't  more  anxious  ter  marry  'n  me,  that  she  never 
come  ter  talk  ter  me  'bout  it,  but  ef  we  wus  ever  goin' 
ter  marry,  she  thought  we'd  better  now,  an'  not  be  pes- 
terin'  no  more.  She  was  willin'  not  ter  marry  an'  not 
ter  say  nothin'  more  'bout  it,  but  she  won't  willin'  ter 
be  worried  four  or  five  years  like  we  wus  thin.     I  tola 


134  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

her  I  underBtood  her,  that  she  could  do  'thout  me  er 
heap  better'n  I  could  'thout  her,  an'  that  I  wus  talkin 
jes'  for  fun  whin  I  said  she  wanted  ter  marry  the  most 
^But,  Mol,'  I  sed,  *I  can't  stop  school;  you  don't  under 
Stan',  'caze  you  ain't  tried  it,  an'  that's  what  hurts  me 
You  thinks  I's  treatin'  you  mean  'caze  I  won't  stop 
It's  mighty  hard,  Mr.  Ramla,  ter  love  er  gal  so  an 
have  her  feel  that  way,  an'  can't  explain  it  ter  her;  it's 
mighty  hard." 

I  knew  it  was. 

*'But  'twon't  no  use  stayin',  an'  I  lef  an'  just 
tole  her,  'Mol,  I  won't  come  back  no  more;  but  remem- 
ber, I  alius  will  love  you  better'n  enny  gal  in  the  world.' 
*Allu8  will?'  she  asked  'Yes,  alius.'  Mrs.  Smith  fol- 
lowed me  whin  I  left  an'  sed,  'Bill,  won't  she  love  you?' 
an'  I  said,  'I  don't  know;   Mol  is  mighty  queer.'  " 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Smith  came  to  Walesca; 
she  brought  me  a  note.  "Thar  wus  three,"  she  said, 
*'an'  this  's  wun;   she's  gone,  I  dunno  whar." 

"Mol  gone?"  I  asked. 

'Yes,  she's  gone."  Her  face  was  hard  and  pinched 
with  her  sorrow. 

"See  what  she  says  ter  you,"  she  said. 

The  note  was  written  by  some  one  else,  of  course : 

Mr.  Ramla, 

I  am  going,  and  it's  for  good;  persuade  mam  so,  and 
Bill  too.  It's  a  heap  better  for  us  all;  I  know  you'd  think 
so  if  I  could  tell  you  why.  Tell  Bill  not  to  think  too  hard  of 
me,  and  go  to  see  mam  and  talk  to  her  an'  keep  her  in  good 
spirits.  Tell  her  I  will  come  back  some  day.  I  thank  you 
for  being  good  to  me.    Your  friend,  Mol  Smith. 

"She  writ  er  note  ter  me ;  I  got  'Fessor  ter  read  it, 
an'  it's  'bout  the  same  as  your'n.  I  dunno  what  ter 
make  o'  Mol.  She  lef  wun  fur  Bill  too,  but  I  ain't  give 
it  ter  him  yit.     I  hate  ter  hurt  the  poor  feller." 

Bill  came  for  me  to  go  home  with  him,  and  she 
gave  him  the  note.     It  was  shorter  than  mine. 

Bill: 

I  always  liked  you  best.  Trust  me ;  I'm  going  for  good. 
Comfort  mother.  Mol. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  135 

"I  drove  her  away,"  he  said,  "I  know  I  did,  and 
she  wouldn't  say  so ;  I  kept  her  worried  bo  about  Calla- 
way." 

**She  never  thought  much  o'  me,"  said  the  mother, 
"ter  leave  me  alone  an'  all  the  wuk  ter  do.  I  didn't  think 
ito'  Mol.'» 

''She's  gone  fur  good,  Mrs.  Smith,"  Bill  said.  **I 
know  it's  mighty  hard  on  you,  but  I'll  come  ever'  day 
after  school  and  help  you  like  I  help  mam." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  it.  If  Callaway 
had  not  been  in  school,  I  should  have  thought  that  Mol 
had  run  off  with  him.  I  had  some  faint  suspicion  that 
he  would  follow  her  in  a  day  or  two.  But  days  and 
weeks  passed  and  Callaway  remained.  He  seemed  as 
distressed  over  Mol's  leaving  as  anyone  else,  though  he 
was  not  as  gloomy  as  Bill.  It  was  the  one  good  thing  in 
Callaway's  character  that  he  really  seemed  to  care  for 
Mol.  I  did  not  believe  it  until  she  left,  but  he  certainly 
showed  strong  evidence  of  affection  then. 

We  heard  nothing  from  Mol  for  some  time,  and  had 
ceased  to  expect  news,  when  one  day  a  letter  came  to 
her  mother.  I  contained  little  news,  however,  only, 
*'I'm  well;  I  wish  I  could  hear  from  you,  but  I  cannot 
let  you  know  where  I  am.  I  hear  indirectly,  however, 
and  that  is  better  than  not  at  all.  I  send  you  two  dol- 
lars." She  was  evidently  working,  and  it  was  good  of 
her  to  help  her  mother.  Mrs.  Smith,  however,  was 
more  discontented  than  ever. 

"I'd  er  heap  ruther  have  Mol  than  the  two  dollars." 

I  went  to  see  her  often,  and  tried  to  comfort  her. 
At  first  she  distrusted  Mol. 

'*Enny  gal  that'd  runoff  an'  leave  her  mam  whin 
she's  the  onliest  child,  I  don't  know  what  ter  think  o' 
her;  an'  enny  gal  that'd  ruther  go  off  an'  make  money 
wukin'  'n  ter  stay  't  home  an'  help  her  mam,  I  don't 
know  'bout  it.  I'm  afraid  she's  married  to  some  rascal 
an'  won't  let  me  know  it." 

But  after  awhile  she  seemed  to  be  satisfied  that  Mol 


136  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

had  some  object  in  view.  1  could  not  help  thinking 
this,  too.  Mol  was  a  fine  girl  in  many  respects,  and, 
after  the  fear  that  she  had  run  away  to  marry  Calla- 
way had  passed,  I  could  not  but  feel  that  she  had  a 
a  work  to  accomplish  which  she  thought  best  to  keep 
from  the  knowledge  of  her  friends  just  then. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

For  some  time  I  had  been  wondering  what  was  the  ne- 
farious business  that  Callaway  and  Lewis  were  supposed 
by  the  strange  man  to  be  engaged  in.  One  of  them  was 
connected  doubtless  with  a  blind  tiger.  They  both 
drank,  I  was  sure,  though  my  friend  did  not  believe  it. 
Finally  I  determined  to  brave  the  danger  of  the  stills 
again  and  discover  whether  Lewis  and  Callaway  had  any 
dealings  with  the  whiskey  men.  I  suspected  that  they 
were  paid  to  bring  whiskey  to  the  school  and  sell  it  to 
the  boys.  Two  or  three  boys  had  been  before  the  fac- 
ulty lately  for  drinking.  To  go  the  round  of  all  the 
stills  would  take  about  a  week. 

One  evening  I  started  out  alone,  not  willing  to  en- 
danger Bill's  life  again.  I  told  my  daughter  not  to  ex- 
pect me  home  that  night,  but  I  did  not  tell  her  or 
anyone  else  where  I  was  going.  Along  the  same  roads, 
by  the  same  by-paths,  as  on  that  memorable  night  with 
Bill,  I  went,  ostensibly,  should  I  meet  anyone,  on  an 
opossum  hunt.  I  did  not  meet  a  soul.  To  one  still  and 
another  I  crept,  but  I  saw  no  sign  of  the  three  boys,  and 
heard  no  sound  but  that  of  the  night  bird  and  the  moon- 
shiners running  the  stills. 

I  came  home  just  before  day,  and,  as  it  was  best 
not  to  go  two  nights  in  succession,  I  rested  on  the  mor- 
row and  the  following  night,  and  went  the  next  night. 
In  this  way  I  was  out  seven  nights  in  two  weeks,  and  made 
the  rounds  of  the  stills  without  harm  and  without  any 
great  danger  that  was  apparent  to  me.  No  discovery 
was  made.  All  that  I  found  I  knew  before.  But  I  felt 
better  satisfied  with  myself  because  of  the  effort ;  and  a 
hope  came  to  me  that  the  boys  were  not   connected  with 

137 


138  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CBACKERS 

the  liquor  traffic.  Still  I  was  not  fully  satisfied;  my 
fear  was  that  the  strange  man  would  discover  that  they 
were  connected  with  the  stills,  and  expose  them. 

A  few  days  later  I  went  to  see  my  friend,  and  told 
him  what  I  had  done,  and  that  I  felt  more  hopeful  of 
the  boys. 

*'The  tables  are  turning,"  he  said;  "you  are  grow- 
ing more  hopeful  and  I  less  so.  I  feel  sure  that  they 
do  sell  liquor  to  the  schoolboys, and  I  suspect  Lewis  of  an- 
other guilt." 

"What  next?"  I  asked. 

*'Well,  a  storekeeper  down  here  showed  me  this  the 
other  day,"  handing  me  a  coin,  "and  said  he  was  sure 
Lewis  had  passed  it." 

It  was  a  counterfeit  piece. 

"To-day,"  he  continued,  "he  told  me  that  Lewis 
again  tried  to  pass  counterfeit  money,  and  when  told  of 
it,  seemed  much  surprised  and  said  it  had  been  passed 
upon  him.  This  afternoon  he  paid  his  tuition  fee  and 
gave  me  this." 

He  handed  me  a  fifty-cent  piece  that  was  well  coun- 
terfeited. 

"So  there  is  a  counterfeiter's  den  somewhere  in  this 
country,"  said  I.  "Truly  there  are  many  hindrances  to 
our  work." 

"Yes,  there  are  many,  and  they  can  be  uprooted 
only  by  degrees.  But  let's  carry  the  work  forward  as 
far  as  possible,  and  not  grow  faint-hearted  because  we  do 
not  now  see  the  end." 

"What  will  you  do  with  these  boys,  especially 
Lewis?"  I  asked. 

"I  will  keep  them  all  here  under  the  moral  influence 
of  the  school  until  I  am  sure  whether  or  not  they  are  in 
this  business  of  selling  liquor  and  handling  counterfeit 
money.  I  will  send  for  Lewis  now^  though,  and  question 
him.  Watch  his  expression  closely." 
Lewis  came  in. 

"Mr.  Lewis,  are  you  a  judge  of  counterfeit  coin?" 
the  president  asked,  handing  him  the  fifty-cent  piece. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  139 

"No,  sir,  I  do  not  profess  to  be  a  judge  of  it.  I 
thought  I  knew  it  well  enough  not  to  allow  anyone  to 
pass  it  off  on  me  ,  but  I  was  mistaken.  Two  or  three 
of  these  rascally  crackers  have  passed  it  off  on  me 
lately." 

"Indeed!   I  am    sorry  that    you  have    been  so    de-" 
ceived.     You  should  notice  closely  when  money  is  given 
you.     You  gave    me    this   counterfeit  piece  for  tuition  ■ 
this  afternoon.     Please  make  it  good  now." 

Lewis  gave  him  fifty  cents  and  put  the  counterfeit 
coin  in  his  pocket.  "I  will  be  more  careful,  sir.  I  am 
sorry  this  has  occurred." 

"Yes,  I  also  am  sorry.  Stay,  Mr.  Lewis,"  as  Lewis 
started  to  leave  ;  "with  whom  have  you  had  money  deal- 
ings recently?  I  did  not  know  that  you  boys  handled 
much  money.     There  is  no  need  of  it  here." 

Lewis'  face  turned  very  red  and  then  very  pale.  "I 
deal  at  the  store." 

"Yes,  but  the  storekeeper  is  an  honest  man  and 
would  not  pass  counterfeit  money.  If  it  is  passed  off 
upon  him,  and  in  the  hurry  of  making  change  he  does 
not  discover  it  at  once,  he  has  the  money  taken  in  during 
the  day  all  tested  at  night,  and  never  gives  counterfeit 
money  in  change." 

"Of  course  I  did  not  mean  that  he  had  given  me 
change  in  counterfeit  money.  You  asked  me  where  I 
dealt,  and  I  told  you.  Besides  my  dealings  at  the  store, 
I  buy  splinters  for  kindling  from  Bill  Collins,  wood 
from  Ben  Jones,  and  now  and  then  I  sell  clothes  to 
negroes." 

I  felt  like  resenting  the  charge  upon  Bill,  but  the 
matter  was,  of  course,  in  the  president's  hands. 

"It  is  strange;  I  deal  with  both  Bill  and  the  wood- 
vender,  and  they  have  never  tried  to  pass  counterfeit 
money  upon  me,  and  I  am  sure  they  would  not  willingly 
handle  it  at  all." 

"Then  you  mean  to  charge  me?"  Lewis  asked  ex- 
citedly. 


140  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKEES 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Lewis.  I  have  only  made  a  plain 
statement  about  Bill  and  the  wood-seller.  If  you  feel 
that  you  have  been  charged,  it  is  a  personal  matter  with 
you,  sir." 

"The  inference  seems  to  be  that  you  charge  me^ 
Professor." 

"Don't  be  too  ready  to  draw  conclusions,  Mr.  Lewis» 
The  readiness  with  which  one  does  this  is  self -condemn- 
ing sometimes.  I  do  not  accuse  you,  but  I  advise  you  to 
be  more  careful  about  handling  counterfeit  money. 
Don't  allow  it  to  be  passed  olf  on  you.  You  may  re- 
tire." 

Lewis  withdrew,  and  my  friend  smiled. 

"Easily  caught,  though  the  evidence  would  not  be 
sufficient  in  law.  But  I  took  note  of  the  date  and  every 
peculiar  mark  upon  the  coin  I  returned  to  him.  I  shall 
know  if  he  tries  to  pass  it  again." 

Then  with  a  troubled  air,  he  arose  and  began  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room. 

"To  think  of  a  young  boy  being  engaged  in  such 
work !  To  think  of  his  fate  if  he  keeps  on  !  To  think 
of  the  loss  of  a  soul  to  itself,  to  the  world,  to  God !  It 
is  horrible!" 

That  night  the  revenue  officer  who  had  been 
wounded  and  who  had  wounded  McCabe  came. 

"I  have  just  heard  of  the  whereabouts  of  McCabe," 
he  said,  "and  must  find  him.  He  is  hiding  in  the  moun- 
tains near  here." 

"Are  you  not  afraid?  He  made  a  vow  of  revenge 
upon  you  for  wounding  him,  you  remember?"  I  said. 

"I  have  no  fear.  He  is  not  expecting  me,  and  I  am 
better  prepared  for  desperate  fighting.  I  think  T  can 
put  the  handcuffs  on  without  a  struggle." 

He  went  out  that  night  and  destroyed  a  blind  still, 
but  returned  without  McCabe.  He  had  seen  no  trace  of 
him.  He  would  ride  some  distance  in  another  direction 
that  day,  he  said,  and  capture  him  the  next  night.  I 
rode  with  him  as  far  as  the  top  of  Pine  Log  Mountain. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  141 

I  watched  him  ride  down  the  mountain,  looking  so 
brave  and  strong.  Just  then  I  heard  a  whizzing  sound, 
then  an  explosion,  and  saw  him  reel  and  fall  from  his 
horse.  I  looked  to  where  the  sound  came  from,  and  saw 
a  man  running  through  the  bushes.  He  was  some  dis- 
tance oif,  but  I  saw  he  was  tall  and  looked  much  like 
th3  strange  man  of  the  mountain.  Can  it  be  McCabe? 
I  thought.  Or  can  the  man  who  saved  my  life  from  the 
snow,  and  who  seemed  to  have  a  kind  heart,  have  done 
this  murderous  deed?  It  would  have  been  useless  to  at- 
tempt to  capture  him.  He  was  too  far  off,  and  running, 
and  my  horse  could  not  have  made  any  headway  in  the 
bush. 

I  went  to  the  officer ;  he  was  dead.  I  took  him  to 
Bill's  home,  and  that  afternoon  we  carried  him  to  Wal- 
«sca.  • 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  number  of  men  went  out  to  look  for  McCabe» 
They  finally  captured  him  in  a  little  cabin  on  the  moun- 
tain, asleep.  He  was  taken  to  Atlanta  and  lodged  in 
jail,  there  to  await  his  trial. 

Life  went  on  peacefully  at  WalescA  for  a  while. 
Lewis  passed  no  more  counterfeit  money.  Occasionally 
still,  though,  a  boy  was  called  before  the  faculty  for 
drinking,  and  no  one  knew  where  he  got  his  whiskey ; 
none  of  them  would  tell,  and  we  could  not^find  out. 

Katherine  had  influenced  two  or  three  girls  to  at- 
tend school,  and  they  seemed  to  be  doing  well.  A  Young 
Women's  Christian  Association  had  been  organized, 
and  Katherine  was  a  leading  member.  I  felt  proud  of 
my  daughter.  She  had  too  much  to  do,  though,  I  feared, 
with  her  school  work,  her  home  work,  and  her  labors 
for  the  people.  Still,  she  never  spoke  of  being  tired, 
and  was  as  cheery  and  bright  as  a  young  life  can  be. 
The  president  often  asked  her  to  aid  him  in  his  many 
oflSces,  and  he  told  me  she  relieved  him  much.  I  feared 
sometimes  she  was  associated  with  him  too  much  for  her 
heart's  good.  My  friend  was  a  man  who  did  not  think 
of  loving  any  woman.  He  was  not  ready  to  think  of  it. 
With  him  love  meant  marriage,  and  he  was  not  ready  to 
marry.  I  noticed  Katherine's  being  pleased  when  she 
could  help  him,  and  I  did  not  like  it.  Ah !  a  young^ 
girl's  heart  is  tender  and  loving.  If  you  would  not  have 
her  love  you,  be  not  near  her.  She  cares  for  you  long 
before  you  tell  her  that  you  care  for  her,  and  does  it  as 
innocently  as  a  baby  loves  its  mother.  She  perhaps  does 
not  know  it,  and  would  not  believe  it  if  you  told  her,, 
but  it  is  true. 

142 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  143 

I  told  my  friend  I  was  afraid  Katherine's  health 
would  give  way ;  I  thought  she  had  better  have  less  to 
do,  and  asked  him  to  he  as  lenient  in  class  as  possible. 
It  was  a  delicate  matter;  I  could  not  say  more.  I  hoped 
he  would  understand,  but  he  seemed  wonderfully  ob- 
tuse; or  maybe  it  was  my  own  solicitude  that  made  the 
matter  so  plain  to  me. 

"Katharine,"  1  said,  one  day,  "you  are  tired.  Let 
me  copy  that  paper  for  the  professor  ;"  buc  she  only  said  : 

"You  are  more  tired  than  I,"  and  kept  on  writing. 

I  could  not  of  course  tell  her  what  I  thought,  so  let 
the  matter  go  on  as  it  was. 

Katherine  and  I  went  occasionally  to  see  the  old 
man  whose  charge  was  a  lonely  grave.  We  met  his 
sweetheart's  mother  at  his  home.  Have  I  not  spoken  of 
her  before?  She  was  a  good  old  woman;  grief  had  hal- 
lowed her  life,  until  she  seemed  not  like  the  other 
cracker  women.  She  said  to  me  one  day,  when  I  was 
there  alone : 

"Mr.  Ramla,  you've  got  er  mighty  nice  child  fur  yer 
darter.  She  makes  me  think  o'  leetleMay;  her  ways 
's  so  mild  an'  lovin'.  She  thinks  'bout  folks,  too,  an'  's 
alius  doin'  somethin'  fur  somebody,  an'  she  don't  seem 
ter  know  she's  doin'  folks  good  no  more'n  ef  shewurn't. 
She's  er  powerful  sweet  gal  an'  jes'  's  peart  's  she  kin 
be.  Don't  she  do  mighty  well  in  school? — But  lemme 
tell  you,  Mr.  Ramla,  Katy's  in  love,  an'  I  don't  think 
it's  good  fur  her  now  'fore  she  gits  through  I'arnin'.  I 
wouldn't  ax  her  'bout  it,  'caze  't  might  make  her  think 
too  much,  but  I  know  'tis  so;  an'  men  folks  don't  gin- 
er'ly  know  sech  things  well,  an'  I  thought  I'd  tell  you, 
'caze  her  mother  ain't  here." 

I  thanked  her,  and  asked  her  whom  she  thought  my 
daughter  cared  for. 

"I  dunno.  You  see,  I  don't  never  go  nowhar,  an' 
don't  see  the  child  with  nobody  but  you  whin  you  comes 
here." 

I  thought  I  knew,   and  determined  to  save  her  as 


144  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

many  heart-throbs  as  I  could.  "It  is  a  light  thing  for 
a  girl  to  love,"  you  say.  ''They  all  love,  and  it  never 
amounts  to  anything."  You  are  wrong.  It  ruins  the 
life  of  many  a  one.  I  feared  Katharine  was  like  me, 
and  would  never  love  but  once.  Happy  if  her  choice 
was  happy,  miserable  if  not.  A  man  who  wins  the 
heart  of  such  a  girl  without  a  fair  exchange,  is  not  only 
a  thief,  but  a  murderer.  I  blamed  not  my  friend  in  this 
case;  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  won  Katherine ;  nor 
did  he  know  that  his  qualities  were  such  that  few  women 
could  resist  them. 

I  went  immediately  to  see  him. 

'*I  am  going  to  stop  Katherine  from  school  for  a 
while,"  I  said.  "McCabe's  trial  will  soon  come  off,  and 
I  shall  have  to  attend  that ;  so  I  will  take  her  home  to 
Btay  while  I  am  gone." 

"And  do  you  think  we  could  not  take  care  of  her  for 
that  short  time?"  he  asked. 

"You  draw  inferences  too  readily.  I  think  she  will 
be  well  taken  care  of  here,  but  it  is  best  to  take  her 
home  for  awhile." 

*'She  is  your  child,  of  course;  but  as  president  of 
the  school  in  which  she  is  a  student,  I  advise  you  not  to 
take  her  away  now.  We  hold  examinations  soon  ;  you 
want  her  to  stand  them;  she  is  doing  well  in  her  classes, 
and  I  think  you  will  be  doing  her  an  injustice.  You 
must  not  take  her,"  he  said,  almost  angrily;  and, 
frowning,  he  arose  and  went  to  the  window. 

*'She  is  very  tired;  you  do  not  see  it,  but  I  do.  She 
needs  rest.  Health  is  more  than  culture.  Besides,  she 
has  plenty  of  time  to  learn." 

**Do  you  not  know,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  mortify- 
ing the  child's  ambition.  She  is  leading  her  classes,  and 
would  necessarily  fall  behind  them  by  leaving,  and,  as 
to  the  work,  she  would  have  to  work  much  harder  to 
catch  up  afterwards  than  she  does  now  to  lead." 

"That  may  be  all  true,  but  Katherine  must  go  with 
me  home  and  remain  there  until  I  return.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  better  for  her  not  to  come  back  at  all." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  145 

"Something  has  happened  to  cause  you  to  come  to 
this  rash  determination." 

''Again  you  draw  inferences  too  readily,"  I  said, 
rising  to  leave. 

"But  there  has,  and  by  virtue  of  our  long  friend- 
ship I  beg  you  to  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  say  that,  be- 
cause it  miay  not  be  connected  with  the  school.  If  it  is, 
1  have  a  right  to  know,  and  to  demand  that  you  tell 
me." 

He  had  arisen,  and  was  standing  between  me  and 
the  door.  He  was  more  angry  than  I  had  ever  seen 
him.  I  grew  angry,  too.  No  right  of  friendship  could 
justify  his  acting  thus  with  reference  to  a  private  matter. 
"I  do  not  answer  all  demands,"  I  replied  haughtily. 
"If  you  do  not  answer  just  ones,  I  need  not  argue 
with  you  or  plead  for  Miss  Katherine's  interests.  A 
man  who  will  not  be  just  to  a  friend  may  not  be  to  his 
daughter." 

"I  think,  sir,  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my  daughter's 
interests,  and,  in  order  to  be  just  to  her,  I  must  take  her 
from  this  place.  As  to  our  friendship,  for  its  continu- 
ance I  beg  that  you  will  say  nothing  else." 

*'Sir,  I  have  the  guardianship  of  this  school  and  of 
€very  student  in  it,  and  I  have  a  right  to  demand  what 
has  happened  to  render  it  just  to  your  daughter  to  take 
her  home." 

"Don't  speak  of  demands.  The  term  is  too  strong. 
I  will  say  to  you  this,  though,  that  the  matter  I  refer  to 
is  nothing  you  can  help,  and  this  relieves  me  of  the 
necessity  of  telling  you." 

"I  made  provision  for  this  when  I  asked  that  if  it 
were  not  connected  with  the  school  you  would  tell  me — 
for  friendship's  sake." 

"Friendship  claims  too  much  in  this  case.  There 
are  things  I  would  not  tell  my  best  friend,  and  these  are 
the  things  that  I  would  not  tell  you." 

"Then  friendship  is  worth  nothing  and  I  care  no 
longer  for  it." 


146  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"If  you  care  no  longer  for  mine,  the  matter  shall  be 
mutual." 

"As  you  will.  You  are  controlling  the  evening.** 
He  turned  from  me,  and  I  left. 

I  felt  sadder  that  evening  than  I  had  done  for  years. 
My  friend  I  had  known  from  his  infancy.  I  was  much 
older  than  he,  but  since  the  time  of  our  intimate  asso- 
ciation in  the  work  among  the  crackers,  he  had  been  so 
much  stronger  than  I,  so  much  more  effective  in  the 
work,  that  I  looked  up  to  him,  and  should  miss  his  wise 
counsel.  And  his  comradeship — what  of  that?  We  had 
been  companions  and  closer  friends  than  men  often  are. 
I  loved  him  and  I  believed  he  loved  me. 

"Katherine,"  I  said,  when  I  went  in,  *'we  must  go 
home  at  once." 

"Why,  father!" 

"Yes,  at  once.  McCabe's  trial  takes  place  in  ten 
days,  and  I  have  to  be  in  Atlanta  by  that  time,  and  you 
must  go  home.     You  had  better  pack  immediately." 

"Could  I  not  stay  here,  father?"  she  asked.  "I 
have  examinations  next  week  and  I  am  io  anxious  to 
stand  them  w^ell.  Then  the  class  wull  take  up  one  or 
two  new  studies,  and  it  would  be  so  much  better  for  me 
to  begin  with  it." 

"You  may  never  return  here  to  school.  The  studies 
will  not  matter  at  all." 

I  had  not  intended  to  be  so  brusque,  but  I  was 
ruffled  in  spirit. 

"Is  this  not  a  sudden  determination,  father?" 

"Very." 

"I  shall  miss  the  work  so,  and  I  think  the  people 
may  miss  me,  too.  I  have  tried  to  help  you  in  your  work, 
father." 

"You    have   helped  me,   Katherine,  more  than  you 
know,  and  I  regret  very  much   the  necessity  of  your 
leaving,  but  it  cannot  be  helped." 
"Will  you  return,  father?" 
"I  do  not  know;  most  likely  not." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  147 

"Then  what  will  the  work  do  without  you?" 
"Very  well.     The  president  of  the  school  can  carry 
it  on." 

"But  he  cannot  do  everything,  father." 
"A  deep  crimson  had  painted  her  cheeks ;   she  put 
her    hands    to    them ;  the   crimson   indicated  a  burning 
heart.     The  sight  made  me  more  obdurate. 

"He  may  miss  me,  but  it  is  his  own  fault  that 
I  go." 

"You  speak  bitterly,  father.     What  has  happened?" 
"Nothing,  except  that  the   president  of  the  school 
and  I  have   exchanged  some  unkind  words,   and    have 
severed  tJie  friendship  of  years." 

"Oh,  father!     You  do  not  mean  this?" 
"Yes,  that  is  what  is  the  matter.     Now,  ask  noth- 
ing else,  but  be   a  good,  obedient  child,  and  pack  your 
trunks  at  once." 

I  felt  like  a  child-slayer,  Katherine  looked  so  wild 
and  unlike  herself. 

"I  hope  you  will  regret  this,  father,  and  change," 
she  said,  with  a  little  haughty  turn  of  the  head. 

I  cannot  say  how  I  felt,  but  I  know  of  no  feeling 
more  miserable  than  that  which  follows  the  loss  of  a 
friend  when  one  is  largely,  if  not  wholly  to  blame  for  the 
loss.  There  is  such  emptiness;  all  other  friends  cannot 
take  the  place  of  this  one;  and  there  is  such  self-re- 
proach. And  what  was  the  necessity  of  it?  Nothing 
except  that  I  feared  Katherine's  life  would  be  blighted 
by  her  love  for  my  friend  when  he  did  not  care  for  her. 
Nothing  but  this,  did  I  say?  Well  was  not  this  enough? 
But  there  was  only  /ear,  and  no  certainty.  I  did  not 
even  know  that  Katherine  cared  for  my  friend.  I  was 
not  sure  that,  even  if  she  did,  it  would  blight  her  life. 
I  did  not  know  that  he  did  not  care  for  her.  I  would 
not  have  had  "the  wish  father  to  the  thought,"  but  it 
had  seemed  to  me  that  once  or  twice  while  he  was  asking 
why  I  meant  to  take  her  away,  the  tone  of  his  voice  and 
his  manner,  more  than  hisf  words,  were  some    indication 


148  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

of  affection.  If  it  was  true  1  was  sure  that  he  was  not 
conscious  of  it,  and  it  may  have  been  only  my  fancy.  I 
would  have  given  almost  anything  to  have  had  it  so.  I 
sat  at  my  desk  and  tried  to  write  to  my  friend, but  there 
was  nothing  that  I  could  say.  The  only  thing  that  would 
satisfy  him  would  be  to  state  my  reason  for  taking  my 
daughter  away,  and,  in  delicacy,  I  could  not  do  that.  I 
wondered  then,  and  I  have  wondered  since,  if  delicacy 
should  really  have  had  any  place  in  a  case  like  this.  I 
doubt  if  it  should,  and  yet,  to  give  up  delicacy  of  feeling 
even  for  an  instant,  is  like  giving  up  a  principle;  it  low- 
ers the  whole  nature,  and  that  should  be  kept  strong 
and  pure  and  delicate  and  free  from  compromise. 

The  next  day  Katherine  spent  in  packing.  She 
looked  unable  to  do  anything.  She  had  aged  two  years 
in  that  one  night,  and  I  was  just  enough  to  her  to  know 
that  it  was  not  all  from  love  of  any  one  person.  She 
loved  the  school,  the  students,  the  whole  people,  and  the 
work.  She  had  interests  and  friendships  at  Walesca.  I 
believed  that  her  generous  heart  suffered  more  for  these 
than  for  a  peculiarly  personal  interest. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

In  a  few  days  we  left.  I  thought  my  friend  would 
seek  to  renew  the  friendship,  and  maybe  declare  himself 
wrong,  but  he  felt  possibly  as  I  did — that  there  was 
nothing  to  say.  Ah !  it  is  harder  to  mend  than  ta 
make.  Have  you  not  heard  that  it  is  harder  to  make  an 
old  garment  over  than  to  make  a  new  garment?  It  is 
true  of  other  things  than  clothes. 

My  friend  went  with  us  to  Canton.  I  thought  I  had 
never  seen  him  so  courtly.  He  talked  as  pleasantly  and 
cheerily  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  we  said  good- 
bye with  a  cordial  hand- grasp. 

"Miss  Katherine,  I  shall  miss  you;  and  you,  too,'* 
he  said  to  me. 

Katherine  was  very  ill  when  we  reached  home.  She 
looked  worse  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  look,  and  her 
mother  thought  I  had  brought  her  because  she  wag  ilL 
She  had  nervous  prostration  from  overwork  and  the  sud- 
den change.     My  wife  was  never  so  angry  with  me. 

"You  do  not  know  how  to  manage  girls,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  not  trust  Katherine  with  you  again." 

I  was  mortified  to  think  that  I  could  not  take  care 
of  my  own  daughter. 

It  was  necessary  for  me  to  attend  McCabe's  trial  as 
a  witness.  I  thought  this  trial  would  solve  the  mystery 
of  the  appearance  on  the  mountain ;  I  should  at  least 
find  out  if  it  was  McCabe.  I  had  been  to  the  mountains 
a  number  of  times  since  his  arrest  to  see  if  the  strange 
man  was  still  there,  but  he  did  not  once  appear.  It  was 
with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity,  therefore,  that  I  entered 
the  court-room.  McCabe  was  brought  in.  He  was  a 
tall,*  angular  man,   smooth-faced,  with  sandy  hair  and 

149 


150  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

fierce  gray  eyes.  His  appearance  was  very  much  that  of 
the  apparition,  but  the  latter  had  a  long,  iron-gray 
beard,  and  a  milder  look,  I  thought.  I  could  not  deter- 
mine whether  or  not  the  two  were  identical,  not  even 
when  I  heard  McCabe's  voice.  It  was  like,  and  yet 
unlike,  the  voice  of  the  watchman;  as  you  have  heard 
one  of  two  brothers  speak,  and  almost  imagined  that  it 
was  the  other,  and  yet  an  intonation  now  and  then  would 
dissuade  you  from  the  imagination.  During  all  the 
trial  I  was  not  able  to  say  whether  the  voice  was  that  of 
the  apparition  or  not. 

A  great  number  of  McCabe's  relatives  had  come  to 
testify.  They  came  in  wagons,  eight  men  and  seven 
women.  The  women  had  their  work,  as  if  they  could 
not  afford  to  lose  a  minute's  time.  One  was  making  a 
dress,  hemming  a  ruffle  that  had  got  tangled  in  the  straw 
in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon;  another  was  making  a  boy's 
pants;  a  third  had  her  knitting,  and  was  vigorously  ap- 
plying the  needles,  reminding  one  of  Madame  Lafarge, 
who  knitted  all  day  by  the  guillotine  during  the  dark 
days  of  Paris,  and  knitted  in  her  socks  the  numbers  of 
the  condemned  as  the  sharp  knife  moved  up  and  down 
in  its  rapid  death- strokes.  Both  men  and  women  were 
garrulous  and  excited.  Many  a  threat  was  uttered,  and 
boasts  without  number. 

"Bud  kilt  the  man ;  course  he  did;  been  tryin'  fur 
er  year  ter  do  that,  but  we're  goin'  ter  git  him  out;  jes' 
you  wait  an'  see.  Mac'U  rule  this'  country  ag'in,  sure's 
you're  born ;  ketch  him  gittin  hung;  ropes  weren't  made 
fur  Mac.     Ain't  he   kilt  three  men  'fore  now?" 

*'Thar  ain't  nobody  a-goin'  ter  sw'ar  ag'in'  him; 
they'se  afeard." 

McCabe's  sister  was  in  one  of  the  wagons. 

"I  dunno,  but  I  'spect  they'll  have  purty  much  to 
say  ag'in'  him  this  time,  'caze  they'll  think  fur  sure  he'll 
swing;"  and  she  began  crying  and  groaning. 

"N^ver  you  mind, sister  'Phronie,  Mac's  got  friends, 
an'  ain't  thar  'nough  o'  us  ter  keep  enny  man  in  'the 
county  from  hangin?" 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  151 

They  saw  me,  and  one  of  the  men  beckoned  me  to 
him. 

"I  say,  pard,  whatever  yer  name  is,  what  yer  goin' 
ter  do  'bout  this  case?  Yer  goln'  ter  testify  ag'in'  the 
bully  o'  the  mountains?  Better  mind.  I  tell  yer  fur 
yer  own  good." 

"McCabe's  er  desp'rate  feller,  an'  he  don't  spare  no 
enemy.  Never  mind  'bout  yer  been  helpin'  folks  here. 
He  don't  keernothin'  fur  that.  We're  goin'  ter  git  him 
free  'thout  yer  testimony ;  I  jes'  tell  yer  fur  yer  own 
sake. — But  say,  now,  I'll  give  yer  er  cow  nex'  fall  and 
feed  her  all  the  winter  fur  you  ef  you  won't  say  nothin' 
ag'in'   him." 

"I  can  only  say  what  I  know,  regardless  of  whether 
it  is  for  or  against  McCabe,"  I  answered. 

"And  yer  don't  want  the  cow?  Better  not  ef  yer 
talk  fur  hangin'  Mac,  'caze  yer  won't  need  her.  I  don't 
reckin  they  drink  hot  milk,"  pointing  down. 

McCabe's  wife  was  in  the  party,  but  she  was  more 
quiet  than  the  rest. 

The  evidence  for  the  people  tended  strongly  to  show 
that  McCabe  was  guilty.  One  man  testified  that  Mc- 
Cabe had  written  the  notice  that  the  revenue  officer  had 
seen  eighteen  months  before  tacked  on  a  tree.  Another 
testified  that  he  had  seen  McCabe  remove  the  bullet  with 
which  the  revenue  officf^r  had  wounded  him,  and  had 
heard  his  vow  that  the  same  bullet  should  end  the  offi- 
cer's life.  One  witness  said  that  he  had  several  times 
met  McCabe  in  the  mountains  and  been  asked  by  him  if  he 
had  seen  "that  miserable  revenue  officer."  "I  would  come 
ter  light  an'  be  tried  fur  plottin'  ter  kill  er  revenue  officer ; 
I  could  easy  clear  myself,  but  I'm  hidin'  out  ter  get  er 
<jhance  at  the  man  who  'tempted  ter  kill  me;  I'll  kill  him 
ef  it's  the  las'  thing  I  do."  He  kept  the  battered  bul- 
let with  which  he  had  been  shot,  carefully  preserved  in 
a  little  bag,  in  his  inside  pocket. 

Three  other  witnesses  testified  that  they  had  met 
McCabe  the  day  of  the  shooting,   and  that  he  had  said, 


152  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'I'll  git  him  ter-day,  boys;  he's  comin'  this  way.'^ 
After  leaving  McCabe  they  had  started  back  to  Wales- 
ca  to  warn  the  ofBcer,  but  passed  while  the  officer  and  I 
were  on  the  mountain  talking,  and  so  missed  him.  The 
witnesses  were  all  asked  why  they  did  not  inform  the 
sheriff  of  McCabe's  whereabouts,  as  a  warrant  had  been 
issued  for  his  arrest  when  the  other  moonshiners  were 
prosecuted.  For  two  reasons,  they  said  :  McCabe  was 
in  the  mountains,  everybody  supposed  that ;  the  sheriff 
was  as  sure  of  it  as  they  were.  But  he  could  never  have 
been  found.  After  seeing  him,  if  they  had  gone  imme- 
diately to  Walesca,  he  would  have  gone  to  a  distant 
point  by  the  time  the  officers  could  have  begun  a  search 
for  him,  so  it  was  no  use  to  tell.  The  second  reason  was 
that  they  feared  McCabe.  It  was  well  known  that  he 
thought  nothing  of  killing  anyone  who  interfered  with 
him  at  all. 

I  could  only  testify  that  I  had  seen  the  death  of  the 
officer  and  the  man  who  had  evidently  fired  the  shot, 
making  his  escape.  I  had  seen  only  his  back,  but  the 
height  and  form  of  the  man  corresponded  to  McCabe's. 

The  testimony  for  the  defense  was  unique.  The 
first  witness  was  McCabe's  sister.  "Do  you  know  the 
prisoner?"  "Think  I  do;  leastwise  I  know'd  him  'fore 
he  wus  er  prisoner."  "How  long  have  you  known 
him?"  "Well,  ef  that  ain't  pert  in  you  !  Is  that  yer 
bizness?"  "Come  to  order,  woman.  How  long  have 
you  known  the  prisoner?"  "Well,  ef  you  mus'  know, 
we  wus  fotched  up  in  the  same  house,  an'  I  think  it's 
been  now  thirty  year ;  ax  him ;  it  mought  'a'  been  long- 
er." "Don't  you  know  how  old  you  are?"  "Of  course; 
I'se  thirty-nine  year,  two  months,  an'  thirty  days  old, 
but  I  don't  know  precisely  how  old  Mac  is.  You  under- 
stan'?"  "Is  the  prisoner  your  brother?"  "You're 
right;  he's  the  bes'  bud  goin'."  "I  asked  if  he  was 
your  brother?"  "An'  I  said  he  war."  "Do  you  know 
when  the  revenue  officer  shot  the  prisoner?"  "I  don't 
know  the  day — think  'twus  Tuesday — naw,  'twus  night. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  16S 

Oh !  come  ter  'member  now,  Bud  sed  he  never  looked  at 
his  watch  ter  see  whether  'twas  'fore  twelve  o'clock  or 
arter.  It  wus  'bout  wun  whin  he  got  home,  an'  he 
stopped  on  the  way  ter  dig  out  the  lead;  an'  't  didn't 
take  him  long  ter  git  the  bullet  out.  Bud's  mighty- 
quick  at  ever'thin',  though  it  mought  'a'  been  We'n's- 
day  whin  he  wus  shot."  "What  year  was  it.?"  "Las' 
year."  "What  time  of  the  year?"  "I  reckin  it  mought 
'a'  been  fall,  'caze  I  had  jes'  come  back  frum  town  that 
evenin'  an'  throwed  my  shawl  on  the  bed.  'Twas  thar 
whin  Bud  come  in,  an'  I  don't  wear  er  shawl  in  the  sum- 
mer." "Perhaps  it  was  winter?"  "Naw,  I  wears  er 
cloak  in  the  winter;  'twas  fall."  "Did  you  wear  a 
thick  dress?"  "1  think  I  did;  I  dunno,  though.  I 
wore  my  best  black  coat,  an'  it  mought  'a'  been  lawn. 
My  bes'  dress  ain't  alius  thick;  it  don't  have  ter  be,  you 
know;  my  shawl  er  my  cloaJj  '11  keep  me  w^arm  'thout 
coTisiderin'  the  dress."  "Do  you  not  remember  the 
month?"  "I's  gittin'  tired  o'  talkin'  'bout  time  now; 
you  git  me  all  flustered;  'twas  June."  "June  does  not 
come  in  the  fall,  and  people  do  not  generally  wear 
shawls  in  that  month."  "Nc'um!  P'rhaps  you  ain't 
as  old  as  me;  I's  seen  the  frost  kill  all  the  fruit  in  June. 
The  still  bizness  warn't  good  that  year,  'caze  thar 
warn't  no  fruit;  an'  the  craps  wus  tetched,  too."  "Did 
your  brother  run  a  distillery?"  "Stick  to  your  p'ints, 
man;  I  could  ketch  you  in  er  minute;  we  wus  talk- 
in'  'bout  June."  "Well,  what  month  was  it?  Do  you 
know?"  "I  think  'twus  October,  the  bes'  I  kin  reckin 
it  now ;  I'd  er  put  't  down  ef  I'd  know'd  you  wus  goin' 
ter  ax."  "Did  your  brother  keep  a  still?"  "Yes,  he 
kept  er  still,  but  we  made  no  heap  er  money  out'n  it." 
"Do  you  run  it  now?"  "I  rule  that  question  out,"  said 
the  judge.  "I  thought  you  wus  gittin'  too  personal, 
young  man;  thank  you,  Jedge,"  the  woman  said. 
"Where  was  the  prisoner  the  day  the  revenue  officer  was 
killed?"  "Can't  prove  't  by  me.  He  wus  in  the  moun- 
tains somewhar,  'cept  'bout  the  time  that  man  war  kilt, 


164  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

an'  thin  he  wus  sittin'  talkin'  terme.  He  says,  'Sister, 
I've  'bout  give  out  shootin'  that  revenue  man;  he  never 
hurt  me  much;  I  b'lieve  I'll  let  him  go.'  'That's  jes' 
like  you,  Bud,'  I  said,  'ter  be  so  forgivin'-like.  I  think 
you'd  better  go  home,  too,  an'  let  him  be.  'Taint  no 
profit  ter  you  ter  keep  watch  so  long.'  An'  'bout  that 
time  we  heard  somebody  come  er  runnin',  an'  Bud  said 
he  didn't  know  what  they  mought  want,  but  I  mought 
pertend  ter  git  'm  what  they  wanted  's  well  's  he;  and 
he  lef,  goin'  purty  fas'.  They  come  an'  I  axed  what  I 
could  do  fur  'm,  an'  they  sed,  'Git  McCabe  oufc'n  the 
house;  he's  je«»'  kilt  er  revenue  man;'  an'  I  told  'm, 
'Naw,  he  hadn't;'  but  they  'sisted;  an'  I  tole  'm  they 
could  imagine  what  they  choose,  an'  they  come  in  an' 
looked  ever'whar  fur  Bud,  but  he'd  had  time  ter  'scape 
'way  off  by  that  time,  an'  they  followed  him,  but  they 
didn't  ketch  him  that  day."  "Did  he  come  to  your 
house  any  more  that  day,  Miss  McCabe?"  "Naw,  he 
never  come  no  more."  "That  will  do."  "I'm  mighty 
glad  o'  it." 

The  next  witness  was  a  man.  "Do  you  know  the 
prisoner?"  "You're  right,  I  do.  We'n  high  strikers 
t'gether."  "How  long  have  you  known  him?"  "Sence 
we  wus  chapg."  "How  long  has  he  been  running  blind 
stills?"  "Now  yer  got  me  ;  I  dunno."  "Do  you  run 
a  still?"  The  lawyers  contended  about  this  question  for 
some  time,  and  before  it  was  decided  the  man  said, 
"  'Taint  no  use  ter  talk  so  much  'bout it;  I  kin  tell  yer; 
naw,  I  don't  run  no  still."  "Did  the  prisoner  tell  you 
that  he  meant  to  kill  the  revenue  oflacer.?"  "Naw." 
"Were  you  with  the  moonshiners  when  they  were  pre- 
paring to  attack  the  revenue  officer.?"  "Yer  mean 
whin  that  man  shot  Mac?"  "Yes."  "Naw,  I  war  not 
thar  endurin'  o'  the  skirmish,  but  my  son  John,  he  war 
thar,  and  he  sed  he  wished  he  hadn't  'a'  went."  "Why 
did  your  son  say  that?"  "  'Gaze,  man,  he  met  with  er 
leetle  accident."  "What  accident?  Was  he  wounded?" 
"Naw;  he  war  one  o'  them  what  wus  swung  up  fur  try- 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  155 

in'  ter  kill  that  revenue  man."  He  was  asked  a  number 
of  other  questions,  but  gave  evasive  or  confused  tes- 
timony, that  was  of  little  or  no  benefit  to  McCabe. 

■  McCabe's  brother  was  put  on  the  stand,  and  said 
that  McCabe  was  hunting  with  him,  when  they  met  some 
one  who  told  them  of  the  officer's  death.  He  was  ques- 
tioned as  to  the  hunt,  and  once  said  they  were  hunting 
partridges ;  again,  rabbits,  and  then  said  they  were 
hunting  anything  they  could  find.  They  all  told  the 
story  of  the  hunt  except  the  first  woman. 

"What  time  was  the  man  shot.?"  was  asked  one. 
**Just  at  five  o'clock  in  the  last  half  o'  the  day;  we  met 
er  man  not  but  er  few  minutes  arterwards,  an'  he  tole 
us  BO.  Mac  said  he'd  better  run,  for  they'd  sure  think 
'twus  him;  an'  he  run."  ''Who  was  the  man  you 
met?"  "Jim  Whitaker."  "Where  is  he  now.?"  He 
was  one  of  the  witnesses  and  was  called  in.  "Did  you 
meet  this  man  and  McCabe  and  tell  them  that  the  reve- 
nue officer  had  just  been  killed?"  "Yes."  "Did  you 
see  him  killed?"  "Naw,  I  never  seed  him  ;  met  er  man 
an'  he  tole  me." 

Two  or  three  other  men  were  called  in  and  testified 
about  the  same  thing.  The  last  one  came  from  Walesca, 
and  had  heard  it  there  at  least  two  hours  after  it  hap- 
pened.    They  evidently  had  agreed  to  tell  this  story. 

Speeches  on  both  sides  were  made,  the  judge 
summed  up,  the  jury  retired,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  re- 
turned.    The  foreman  arose. 

"May  it  please  your  honor,  the  jury  has  arrived  at 
a  verdict.  The  prisoner  is  found  guilty  of  murder  in 
the  first  degree." 

No  one  was  surprised;  though  doubts  were  ex- 
pressed as  to  the  justice  of  the  verdict,  on  the  ground 
that  the  identity  of  the  murderer  with  McCabe  was  not, 
clearly  proved. 

After  McCabe  had  been  sentenced  to  death,  I  tried 
to  see  him,  to  ascertain  if  he  was  the  man  who  had  been 
watching  me,  but  was  not  allowed  to   do   so.     His  law- 


156  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

yers  appealed   for  a  new  trial   and  got  it,  on  a  techni- 
cality. 

During  the  second  trial  it  was  found  that  McCabe'& 
still  had  been  burned  about  two  months  before  the  plot 
against  the  revenue  officer,  and  that  he  had  not  rebuilt 
it.  He  was  from  home  when  the  plot  was  made,  and  re- 
turned the  night  of  the  difficulty.  He  passed  the  con- 
spirators, and  stopped  to  talk  with  them,  but  took  no 
part  in  the  plot.  The  jury  gave  him  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt  and  acquitted  him,  and  he  was  at  once  re- 
leased. 

It  was  the  most  remarkable  trial  I  had  ever  known, 
that  a  man  sentenced  to  be  hung  should  finally  be  re- 
leased. All  who  had  testified  against  him  were  stricken 
with  terror.  I  though  my  testimony  had  not  been  convict- 
ing, felt  uncomfortable  when  I  thought  of  meeting  this 
man  on  Pine  Log.  The  man  who  had  tried  to  bribe  me 
said:      "I  don't  reckin  you'll  need  the  cow." 

After  his  release  was  ordered,  McCabe  arose  and 
made  the  following  statement : 

"I've  been  near  'nough  ter  the  gallows  not  ter  want 
ter  git  that  near  no  more ;  I's  goin'  ter  live  peaceable 
arter  this,  an'  I  want  ter  tell  all  who's  testified  ag'in' 
rae  that  I  ain't  er  goin'  to  hurt  'm.  They  needn't  be 
skeered.  I  wouldn't  kill  'm  ef  I  had  the  bes'  chance  in 
the  world.  They  thought  they  wus  right  an'  I  don't 
think  no  less  o'  'm,  an'  we  ain't  er  goin'  ter  have  no 
fuss.     I's  goin'  back  home  er  peaceable  man." 

He  passed  near  me  as  he  was  leaving  the  courtroom, 
and  I  stopped  him  and  asked  if  he  was  not  the  man 
who  had  watched  me  so  long:  *'Mr.  McCabe,  I'm  al- 
most sure  you  are." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  o'  nothin',"  he  said,  "an'  don't 
ax  me  who  I  been  watchin'.  I's  been  in  the  business 
too  much  ter  talk  'bout  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

On  returning  home  after  the  conclusion  of  the  sec- 
ond trial,  I  considered  a  good  deal  as  to  whether  or  not 
I  should  return  toWalesca.  My  friend  had  written  sev- 
eral times,  but,  he  had  not  asked  me  to  come  back. 
Katherine  was  getting  better,  and  one  day  she  called  me 
into  her  room  and  said: 

"Father,  mother  has  told  me  of  the  cause  of  the 
trouble  with  your  old  friend  at  Walesca ;  I  am  morti- 
fied that  you  could  have  thought  of  me  as  you  have,  and 
pained  that  I  should  have  caused  you  and  your  friend 
so  much  trouble.  I  trust  you  will  forgive  me,  and  I  will 
try  to  forgive  you ;  but  you  have  wronged  me.  I  am 
not  in  love  with  my  teacher.  I  am  too  much  of  a  wo- 
man, I  hope,  to  fall  in  love  with  any  man  who  does  not 
care  for  me,  especially  one  whose  relation  to  me  as  my 
professor  in  college  would  debar  me  from  loving.  I  am 
hurt  that  you  regarded  me  as  a  giddy  girl,  thinking 
only  of  love,  and  not  as  a  young  woman  who  is  trying 
to  prepare  herself  for  life  and  the  highest  service  she 
<jan  render  the  world.  You  have  taken  me  from  a  noble 
work  that  I  have  learned  to  love,  and  that  was  doing 
me  more  good  than  I  was  doing  the  people,  and  you 
have  forsaken  a  field  that  needs  the  best  laborers.  The 
president  of  the  college  cannot  do  your  work  ;  I  do  not 
suppose  he  will  attempt  it ;  and  certainly  no  one  else 
-could  fill  your  place.  I  want  you  to  return.  The 
moonshiner's  trial  is  over;  you  have  nothing  to  keep 
you  here  now.  Write  to  the  president  and  tell  him  you 
will  come.  He  would  be  glad,  I  know;  or  I  will  write  if 
you  feel  that  you  will  be  compromised,  and  you  shall  see 
that  I  write  a  womanly  letter." 

167 


158  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKERS 

She  wrote  and  brought  me  her  letter  : 

"Father  has  said  that  I  may  write  and  tell  you  why 
he  thought  it  best  to  take  me  from  Walesca.  It  was 
because  he  thought  I  cared  for  some  one,  and  would  not 
study  well  or  help  as  I  should  in  the  work.  It  is  but 
just  to  myself  to  say  that  he  was  mistaken.  But  he 
was  right  to  take  me  away  as  long  as  he  thought  about 
me  as  he  did.  I  am  altogether  to  blame,  and  beg  your 
pardon  for  causing  you  and  father  so  much  trouble,  and 
for  interfering  with  the  work  that  you  both  love  so 
much,  and  that  I  also  love  and  long  to  see  prosper.  I 
think  it  would  be  your  wish  for  father  to  come  back  and 
help  you,  and  I  think  it  is  his  wish  to  do  so.  As  I  have 
broken  a  bond  of  friendship  old  and  strong,  I  trust  you 
will  allow  me  to  be  the  medium  of  its  renewal,  and  that 
you  and  father  will  be  truer,  firmer  friends  than  before.'* 

My  sweet,  thoughtful,  noble  child ! 

"Katherine,"  I  said,  "you  are  right ;  I  have  mis- 
judged you.  You  are  more  of  a  woman  than  I  thought. 
I  beg  your  pardon ;  it  is  right  that  I  should." 

"No,  father,  I  will  not  have  you  do  that;  I  only 
want  you  to  understand  me." 

"And  you  do  not  love  my  old  friend?" 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks. 

•'I  see  you  do  not  trust  me  yet,  father.  If  I  have 
ever  thought  for  a  moment  of  loving  anyone,  the 
thought  has  been  suppressed  as  unworthy  of  me  now.  I 
could  never  care  for  any  but  a  true  man,  and  certainly  I 
am  not  worthy  to  love  such  a  one  yet." 

"Katherine,  I  am  glad  that  you  can  feel  as  you  do. 
I  am  80  glad  I  understand  you  better,  and  I  will  always 
trust  you  hereafter.  I  will  go  back  to  Walesca  if  my 
friend  wants  me  to  come,  and  you  must  go  with  me.  If 
you  wish,  you  may  send  your  letter,  but  I  will  send  one 
too." 

I  wrote  that  night,  and  in  a  few  days  my  friend 
sent  a  reply  that  was  worthy  of  him,  assuming  the 
blame  and  asking  pardon.     He  seemed  mortified  beyond 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  169 

measure  to  have  intruded  upon  personal  feeling,  though, 
he  really  had  not.  He  had  not  suspected  the  real  cause^ 
he  said.  His  letter  I  preserve  yet  among  treasured 
papers. 

To  Katherine  he  said: 

"Your  womanly  letter  has  reached  me  and  calls  for 
a  nobler  response  than  I  can  make ;  but  it  is  not  because 
I  do  not  wish  to  make  such  a  one.  A  woman's  feeling 
is  so  delicate,  though,  that  a  man  can  never  hope  to  re- 
Espond  to  it  in  like  manner.  So  you  will  pardon  rugged 
expression.  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  done.  You 
have  been  braver  and  truer  than  either  your  father  or  I, 
and  we  are  indebted  to  you  both  for  the  renewal  of  our 
friendship  and  for  the  continuance  of  the  work.  You 
should  not  blame  yourself;  I,  alone,  am  to  blame  for  in- 
truding upon  your  father's  personal  feelings.  For  a 
long  while  he  had  reserved  nothing  from  me,  and  I  had 
forgotten  that  there  could  be  feelings  too  lacred  for  me 
to  share  with  him.  Forgive  my  rudeness  to  your  father. 
He  must  certainly  come  back.  The  work  is  waiting  for 
him,  and  has  suffered  terribly,  by  his  absence.  You 
must  come  to  assist  him.  There  is  too  much  for  him  to 
do  alone.  I  shall  expect  you  both  next  week.  Truly, 
your  own  and  your  father's  friend." 

Of  course  we  went.  My  wife's  last  injunction  was  : 
*'Do  not  break  yourself  down  or  allow  Katherine  to 
break  down,  and  do  not  get  wrought  up  by  your  work 
to  such  a  nervous  tension  that  you  will  not  be  just  to 
yourself  and  to  our  child." 

We  went  on  in  the  old  way  at  Walesca,  and  no  ref- 
erence was  ever  made  to  what  had  happened.  I  noticed 
one  thing,  though;  my  friend  never  called  upon  Kather- 
ine to  afesist  him  in  his  personal  work  now.  Katherine 
had  studied  very  hard  at  home  despite  her  sickness, 
and  stood  her  examinations  well. 

There  was  one  sufferer  from  the  examinations, 
though.  Bill  failed  to  stand  one,  and  was  kept  in  the 
preparatory  department  another  year.     Poor  Bill !     He 


160  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEKS 

had  studied  hard  under  difficulties.  He  had  to  do  much 
of  the  work  at  home,  and  every  day  he  went  over  to 
help  Mol's  mother;  then  he  was  obliged  to  get  splinters 
to  make  a  little  money,  and  the  w^alk  to  school  was  long. 
He  deserved  great  credit  for  being  at  school  at  all,  and 
had  really  done  well  under  the  circumstances. 

Bill  himself,  however,  was  thoroughly  disheartened. 
He  left  school  immediately,  and  did  not  come  back  for 
commencement,  though  a  part  in  the  exercises  had  been 
allotted  to  him.  His  place  had  to  be  filled  by  some  one 
else.  I  could  not  even  persuade  him  to  attend  the  com- 
mencement as  a  visitor. 

"It  would  be  a  tryin'  thing  for  me,  Mr.  Ramla.  I 
might  'a'  been  on  the  stage  myself  if  I  hadn't  done  so 
bad.  I  couldn't  stand  it  to  see  the  others  an'  think  I 
ought  to  be  among  'm." 

I  told  him  that  a  number  of  students  who  failed  to 
stand  their  examinations  would  be  on  the  stage  because 
they  had  got  speakers'  places  before  the  examinations 
had  been  held,  and  that  there  would  be  plenty  of  students 
in  the  audience  who  had  failed  to  be  enrolled  for  a 
higher  class. 

**They  must  not  have  no  pride;  they  ain't  like  me, 
or  maybe  they  didn't  want  to  rise  as  bad  's  I  did." 

He  had  stopped  for  good  this  time,  he  said.  One 
day  after  commencement  I  went  to  see  him,  and  talked 
very  seriously  to  him.  I  condemned  him,  and  spoke  in 
harsh  tones  when  I  saw  milder  ones  had  no  effect.  He 
listened  respectfully,  but  that  was  all.  Bill  was  very 
stubborn  at  times. 

*'No,  I  don't  take  interest  like  I  used  to,  Mr.  Ramla. 
Mol  ain't  here  now,  you  know,  an'  I  miss  her  an'  gits 
irritated.  Ef  she'd  been  here  maybe  I  wouldn't  'a' 
failed.  I  tell  you  what  'tis,  er  feller  don't  know  him- 
self till  he's  tried.  I  thought  I  was  goin'  to  do  so  much 
fur  the  world,  an'  I  had  such  big  ideas  of  what  life  is 
an'  what  folks  ought  to  do,  'fore  Mol  lef,  but  somehow 
sence  thin  I  have  come  ter  the  conclusion  I   don't  care 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES  161 

■so  much  fur  the  world.  I  must  'a'  been  thinkin'  'bout 
Mol  an'  what  I  was  goin'  to  do  for  her  sake  (though  she 
didn't  want  me  ter, )  whin  I  fooled  myself  into  believin' 
'twas  on  account  o'  the  world  I  felt  that  way.  Maybe 
it's  good  she  left;  1  know  myself  better  now,  an'  I  ain't 
half  as  good  as  I  thought  I  wus.  I  feel  powerful  mean, 
too,  whin  I  think  I  drove  Mol  away  frum  her  mother, 
an'  we  don't  know  whether  we'll  ever  see  her  no  more  or 
not.  It's  like  the  ole  man  an'  that  grave  on  the  moun- 
tain. I'm  afraid  Mol  an'  me  won't  meet  till  one  o'  us 
stands  by  the  grave  o'  the  other.  You  dunno  how  sad 
'tis,  Mr.  Ramla." 

I  tried  to  lessen  his  feeling  of  depression  by  taking 
him  on  Pine  Log  to  witness  a  beautiful  scene.  The  moun- 
tain was  fresh  with  the  touch  of  spring.  The  pine  and 
the  oak,  the  cedar  and  the  maple,  with  their  sister  trees, 
stretched  their  limbs  to  show  their  soft  green  garb  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun.  Like  flower  gardens  at  their 
feet  bloomed  the  laurel,  the  wild  ash,  the  scentless  violet, 
and  the  fragrant  arbutus.  Along  the  diferent  ridges 
the  shades  varied  while  between  was  the  deep  mellow 
verdure  of  the  mosses,  the  last  touch  of  the  sunset  having 
left  them  for  the  night.  The  streams  rushed  madly 
down  the  slopes,  and  the  wind  fanned  us  with  its  cooling 
breath.  Now  and  then  it  would  sweep  near  the  ground, 
scatter  the  dead  leaves,  and  snatch  from  an  arbutus 
blossom  its  fragrance.  We  could  almost  hear  it  whis- 
per, "These  need  it  more  than  you,"  and  quickly  it 
rose  freighted  with  perfume. 

"Is  it  not  pleasant  here.   Bill?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  since  the  snow  covered  the  mountain,  the 
trees  were  bare,  the  flowers  dead  !  Will  not  the  One  who 
cares  for  the  mountain  care  also  for  you?  Yea,  longer. 
*The  mountains  shall  depart,  and  the  hills  shall  be  re- 
moved, but  my  kindness  shall  not  depart ;  neither  shall 
the  covenant  of  my  peace  be  removed.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  summer  passed  pleasantly.  Katherine  went 
home.  I  went,  too,  for  a  few  days,  but  soon  returned. 
The  crackers  were  people  who  had  to  be  constantly  urged, 
rhey  thought  they  were  conferring  a  favor  upon  me  to 
consider  their  own  interests,  and  as  long  as  I  did  not 
ask  that  they  should,  they  did  not  feel  called  upon  to 
do  so. 

I  went  to  see  Mr.  Nicely,  the  gold-washer. 

**Law,  Mr.  Ramla,  I  thought  you'd  done  gone  fur 
good;  I  ain't  thought  'bout  the  chiluns  edication  since. 
I  ain't  made  up  the  money  I  lost  onthatoxyit,  neither; 
but  I'U  think  'bout  the  matter  'fore  fall.  What  you 
done  ter  Bill  over  thar?  He  ain't  goin'  no  more,  .he 
says,  but  he  says  it's  er  good  place,  too;  I  don't  under- 
stand it." 

"Bill  has  had  a  good  many  disadvantages  to  labor 
under  this  year,  and  he  failed  on  one  of  his  examina- 
tions; that  is  all.  He  will  recover  from  this  mortifica- 
tion by  fall  and  return  to  school  I  think." 

**Um!  I  never  did  think  Bill  had  's  much  sense  's 
he  thought  he  had;  but  'twon't  be  so  with  my  chaps; 
they  won't  fail  on  nothin' ;  reckin  I'd  better  let  'm  go 
jes'  ter  show  folks  what  they  kin  do." 

Mr.  Sims  said : 

"For  sure  Mr.  Ramla,  they  rumor'd  'round  that  you 
an'  'Fessor  was  mad,  an'  you  warn't  goin'  ter  have 
nothin'  more  ter  do  'ith  the  college,  an'  nobody  ain't 
said  nothin'  ter  me  'bout  sendin'  the  chilun  ter  put  me 
in  mindo'  it,  and  I  clear  furgot  ter  make  'rangements; 
I'll  send  'm  this  fall,  though,  ef  you  think  it's  bes'." 

A  number  of  others  spoke  in  the  same  manner. 
162 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  16a 

"Bill,"  I  said,  one  day,  "of  course  you  have  de- 
cided by  now  to  return  to  school  when  it  opens  again.'* 

''That  depends;  I  ain't  made  no  decision  yet.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing,  though;  I  ain't  goin* 
back  in  the  same  class." 

''Don't  be  stubborn,  Bill.  You  will  be  compelled  to 
do  that." 

"Naw,  sir,  I  ain't  compelled  to  do  nothin' ;  an' I 
ain't  stubborn  neither,  but  I'm  proud.  How  would  it 
look  for  a  cadet  to  go  back  in  his  class?  I  would  just 
as  soon  pull  off  the  straps  if  I  was  a  officer.  I'm  stud- 
yin'  powerful  hard  now,  an'  if  'Fessor'll  let  me  stand 
the  examination  over  just  like  I  was  entering  college, 
and  I  get  through,  I  will  go  on ;  but  if  he  won't  do  that, 
or  if  he  does  an'  I  don't  get  through,  I  won't  go  neither, 
I  done  stated  the  only  terms  upon  which  I'll  ever  go  to 
college  again." 

I  thought  this  rather  commendable  than  not,  and 
told  him  so.  The  president  was  very  kind,  and  encour- 
aged Bill's  pride,  so  when  fall  came,  he  returned  to  col- 
lege and  went  to  work  with  renewed  energy. 

Moreover,  not  satisfied  with  his  own  success,  he 
made  earnest  efforts  to  get  his  friends  to  attend  schooL 
He  succeeded  with  Bob  Smith,  his  enemy  of  the  cock- 
fight, and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  how  Bill  labored  for 
Bob,  and  helped  him  whenever  he  could.  Bob  was  not 
a  very  good  student,  but  Bill  managed  his  protege  ad- 
mirably. He  encouraged,  scolded,  or  shamed  him  as  he 
needed,  but  always  excused  him  to  the  school  and 
shielded    him    from    the    merciless    criticism    of     the 

students. 

*  *  *  *  *  « 

Often  as  I  went  to  the  mountain,  I  never  saw  the 
apparition  there  again.  I  ceased  in  time  to  expect  him, 
and  doubted  no  longer  that  he  was  McCabe.  McCabe 
had  given  up  the  life  of  the  moonshiner,  and  was 
quietly  farming,  and  people  gradually  lost  tteir  fear  of 
him. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 


164  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"Has  Lewis  ever  tried  again  to  pass  off  counterfeit 
money?"  I  asked  my  friend,  one  day. 

''I  do  not  know :  he  has  not  been  caught  attempting 
it,  but  counterfeit  money  is  still  circulated.  Complaints 
have  been  made,  and  we  have  thought  of  employing  a 
detective  to  ferret  the  matter  out.  There  must  be  a 
counterfeiter's  den  not  far  from  this  place.  What  do 
you  say  to  trying  to  break  it  up?" 

*'l  tried  it  once,  you  remember,  but  without  suc- 
cess." 

The  upshot  w^as  that  at  our  request  the  authorities 
promised  to  send  a  detective  to  look  into  the  matter. 

Does  the  recital  of  so  much  lawlessness  and  crime 
seem  strange  to  you?  It  is  no  blood- and- thunder  story 
that  I  am  telling.  It  is  a  plain  account  of  the  actual 
difficulties  that  have  impeded  those  who  have  attempted 
to  better  the  life  of  the  crackers.  It  is  the  history  of  a 
people  who  for  centuries  have  needed  the  world's  help, 
and  have  not  received  it  until  now. 

The  detective,  a  man  named  Sanders,  came,  ostensi- 
bly to  hunt.  The  partridge  season  had  opened;  the 
shooting  was  good.  I  went  with  him  two  or  three  days, 
and  showed  hioi  the  by-paths  and  dangerous  places.  He 
went  often  at  night  and  every  day  until  the  entire  coun- 
try had  been  scoured.  No  trace  of  the  counterfeiter 
was  found. 

"I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  money  is 
not  made  here,"  he  said. 

'^WherCj  then?"  I  asked.  "Surely  no  one  would 
risk  sending  it  through  the  mail  or  by  express." 

"You  cannot  tell  the  ins  and  outs  of  these  men.  I 
shall  stay  at  Walesca  a  day  or  two  and  see  what  is  to  be 
seen.     The  man  may  not  be  outside  of  the  town." 

In  a  day  or  two  the  detective  said  to  me : 

**I  think  I  have  the  man.  Go  with  me  to-night  and 
judge  for  yourself." 

I  wen*  with  him  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  It  was 
twelve  o'clock,   and  all  the  town  slumbered  but  ourselves 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  16& 

and  the  occupant  of  a  little  log  cabin  we  visited.  We 
looked  in  the  window  and  saw  a  strange  sight.  The  win- 
dow was  curtained, but  between  the  lower  end  of  the  cur- 
tain and  the  window-sill  was  a  space  of  perhaps  an  inch, 
ana  through  this  we  watched  the  eccentric  movements  of 
an  old  man.  He  was  not  more  than  four  feet  six  inches 
high,  with  long  gray  locks,  dishevelled  by  his  constantly- 
running  hia  hand  through  them.  A  keen,  gray  eye, 
small  and  searching,  glanced  furtively  about  the  room  at 
times,  and  towards  the  door,  as  if  expecting  someone. 
A  gray  beard  came  to  his  waist,  and  made  him,  in  hig 
strange,  ragged  dress,  look  like  a  wizard. 

"Do  you  think  this  man  is  a  criminal?"  the  detec- 
tive asked. 

"I  know  him  well,"  I  said. 

The  old  man  went  to  his  bed  of  straw,  ripped  the 
side,  and  after  some  search,  drew  out  a  small  bag;  then 
another,  and  another,  until  he  had  taken  out  seven  bags. 
He  sat  down  to  a  rickety  table,  in  a  rickety  chair,  and 
began  counting  the  coin.  We  saw  him  count  it  carefully, 
seven  thousand  dollars  from  each  bag,  then  as  carefully 
put  it  back.  For  some  minutes  he  sat  gazing  upon  the 
bags,  at  times  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  and  then 
with  a  frown  of  displeasure.  Finally  he  put  them  in  the 
bed  again,  covered  them  well  with  straw,  and  sewed  the 
ripped  places  in  back  stitches.  He  then  took  a  shot-gun 
from  the  wall,  examined  it  closely  to  see  that  it  was 
loaded,  tried  the  trigger,  and  placed  the  gun  by  the  bed. 
He  took  an  old  army  pistol  from  the  table  drawer,  gave 
it  the  same  careful  examination  as  the  gun,  and  put  it 
under  his  pillow.  Though  he  had  examined  the  door  be- 
fore he  counted  his  money,  he  inspected  it  again  to  b© 
sure  that  it  was  bolted,  then  blew  out  the  dim  light  of  a 
small  brass  lamp,  and  we  heard  him  go  to  bed. 

'*Do  you  not  think  this  the  man?"  the  detective 
asked. 

"No,"l  answered ;  *'I  think  I  can  exculpate  him  from 
the  guilt  of  counterfeiting  money,  though  in  my  eyes  he 
is  a  criminal.     I  will  tell  you  his  story  to-morrow." 


166  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES 

**There  is  only  one  thing  that  has  kept  me  from  de- 
ciding that  he  is  the  man,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  that 
I  have  seen  no  confederate  here ;  he  seems  to  be  alone 
in  the  business.  I  have  watched  him  for  three  nights 
and  his  actions  indicated  guilt.  You  noticed  him  try  a 
coin  now  and  then  to  see  if  it  would  ring,  as  if  dis- 
trustful of  its  passing  for  good  money?" 

"He  was  testing  its  genuineness.  He  is  a  miser,"  I 
said. 

The  next  morning  I  told  the  detective  the  old  man's 
history : 

"I  did  not  think  to  tell  you  there  was  such  a  char- 
acter here.  His  name  is  Denton.  He  came  while  the 
Cherokee  Indians  were  still  settled  in  this  country,  and 
made  friends  with  many  of  them.  He  was  very  kind  to 
them,  and  they  to  him.  One  of  them  had  accumulated 
a  large  sum  of  money,  and  just  before  the  Indians  were 
removed  he  took  Denton  out  and  showed  him  where  it 
was  buried.  He  gave  it  all  to  Denton,  saying  that  he 
would  never  need  it.  When  the  Indians  were  taken 
away  they  passed  some  graves  along  the  road.  This  one 
broke  from  the  ranks,  and,  throwing  himself  upon  a 
«pear,  fell  dead  upon  the  graves  of  his  loved  ones ;  such 
was  his  devotion  to  them  and  to  his  home.  Denton  took 
the  money,  invested  it,  and  has  made  a  large  fortune. 
He  has  children,  but  will  not  live  with  them,  because  he 
would  not  have  them  discover  where  his  money  is.  We 
have  made  a  discovery  that  he  would  never  rest  if  he 
knew  of.  He  is  a  spiritualist,  though,  and  I  hear  that 
mediums  are  advising  him  to  invest  his  money  as  they 
suggest.  He  will  hardly  have  it  long  now;  they  will 
inveigle  it  out  of  him.  Though  the  man  is  a  miser,  I 
think  he  is  honorable,  and  would  not  for  a  moment  han- 
dle counterfeit  money." 

"So  I  have  been  on  the  wrong  track,"  replied  the 
detective.  "Still,  there  is  counterfeit  money  circulated 
here.  I  have  seen  at  least  fifty  dollars  of  it  since  I 
came.     I'm  glad,  though,    that  you  told  me    this    old 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  167 

mac's  story,  for  I  should  certainly  have  arrested  him 
soon." 

He  remained  a  short  time  longer,  without  finding 
anything  definite,  and  left  to  return  again  when  he 
thought  best. 

I  had  watched  Lewis  while  he  was  there,  and 
thought  he  suspected  his  business.  He  asked  me  one 
evening  if  Mr.  Sanders  was  there  just  to  hunt,  and  said 
he  was  staying  a  long  time.  He  quizzed  me  a  good  deal 
about  him,  and  seemed  to  feel  uneasy  when  the  detect- 
ive was  near. 

I  watched  Callaway,  too.  He  did  not  seem  to  feel 
that  way,  and  I  felt  sure  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  counterfeit  money. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  visited  the  school  often  then.  I  was  always  glad 
and  proud  when  I  heard  Bill  recite.  His  recitations, 
though  not  perfect,  were  always  thoughtful.  He  was 
called  the  ''interrogation  point"  of  the  class.  li  is 
usually  the  duty  of  the  teacher  to  question,  but  this  was 
an  exceptional  case.  Bill  never  ceased  to  ask  questions 
about  everything  in  the  lessons  that  he  did  not  thor- 
oughly understand,  until  he  did   understand  perfectly. 

I  enjoyed  hearing  Katherine  recite,  too.  She  alwaya 
looked  so  interested,  and  seemed  not  to  recite  by  rote. 

One  day  I  walked  in  the  hall  at  recess  and  took  a 
seat  unobserved  to  watch  the  happy  faces.  There  is  no 
better  place  to  study  character  than  in  a  school.  The 
outline  is  just  forming,  and  there  is  no  thought  of  hid- 
ing it.  Two  girls  were  standing  in  the  door  of  one  of 
the  recitation  rooms. 

"Katherine  is  a  hateful  girl,"  one  of  them  said. 

*'Yes,  just  as  hateful  as  she  can  be,  and  Professor 
is  partial  to  her  and  gives  her  better  marks  than  we  get 
because  he  is  in  love  with  her." 

"No,  he  isn't;  he  would  never  love  her,  though  he 
would  like  to  flirt  with  her.  He  gives  her  good  mark* 
just  because  she  is  Mr.  Ramla's  daughter.  He  needs 
him  in  his  business  here,  the  crusty  old  thing.  A  lot  of 
men  would  do  better  than  he  does,  and  I  don't  know 
why  the  Professor  courts  him  so." 

A  young  girl  that  I  did  not  know  came  up  just  then» 

"Why,  girls,  I  heard  what  you  said.  You  know  it 
is  not  true.  Katherine  is  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  school,, 
and  her  father  is  doing  a  great  work  here." 

Exaggerated  though  the  statement  may  have  been^ 
phe  seemed  in  earnest  and  I  felt  grateful  to  her. 

168 


DOWN  AMONG  THE    CE ACKERS  169 

That  night  Katherine  said  to  me: 

"Father,  I  am  so  distressed.  Some  of  the  girls 
think  the  president  of  the  college  is  partial  to  me,  but 
it  is  not  true.  His  whole  life  is  so  fair  and  open  that  I 
know  he  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing." 

"Schoolgirls,  Katherine,  as  a  rule,  do  not  judge  by 
the  general  character.  They  judge  alone  from  particu- 
lar cases.  If  the  president  is  kind  and  pleasant  to  them 
he  is  the  loveliest,  the  best,  the  noblest  man  in  the 
world.  If  he  displeases  them,  he  is  hateful  and  cross 
and  mean,  regardless  of  his  general  life.  School  chil- 
dren cannot  be  accurate  critics ;  their  minds  are  not 
well  enough  developed,  and  their  experience  is  not  wide 
enough.     One  must  have  patience  with  them." 

"But,  father,  it  is  so  unkind  in  them." 

"That  is  true,  but  it  is  also  unkind  in  you  not  to 
bear  with  that  sort  of  thing.  Neither  you  nor  your 
schoolmates  are  perfect." 

"But  father,  I  have  given  them  no  cause,  and  Pro- 
fessor has  not.  I  try  to  recite  well,  and  he  delights  to 
give  every  one  the  highest  marks  she  merits." 

"I  believe  that,"  I  said. 

"Then,  why  do  the  girls  speak  as  they  do?" 

"Because  they  have  some  little  spite  against  you, 
and  are  conscious  that  you  make  greater  efforts  than 
they,  and  so  deserve  better  marks." 

"I  do  not  want  them  to  have  a  spite  against  me;  I 
want  them  to  love  me." 

"Then  take  no  notice  of  their  unpleasant  remarks. 
Be  as  kind  to  them  as  you  can;  help  them  to  get  better 
marks ;  love  them.  Patient,  unselfish  love  will  beget 
love." 

She  seemed  not  fully  satisfied  yet,  but  said  no 
more. 

A  few  days  later  my  friend  said  to  me : 

"I  am  sorry  my  students  are  so  unjust  as  to  say  I 
mark  partially.  I  have  tried  to  merit  their  confidence, 
and  I  feel  hurt  that  they  express  themselves  as  they  do ; 


170  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

but  I  know  that  students  are  often  unjust.  Their  youth 
and  inexperience  excuse  them  to  some  extent ;  I  am  old 
enough  to  understand  that,  but  their  remarks  annoy 
Miss  Katherine  very  much." 

I  think  he  feared  that  I  should  be  hasty  again  and 
take  Katherine  from  school.  I  told  him  what  I  had  said 
to  her,  and  he  seemed  relieved. 

I  thought  it  would  amount  to  nothing ;  but  some 
days  afterwards  I  received  an  anonymous  note : 

**Your  daughter  is  guilty  of  the  most  unpardonable 
cheating,  and  does  not  merit  the  marks  she  gets." 

My  friend  also  received  a  note  accusing  Katherine 
of  cheating  and  him  of  allowing  it.  It  was  expressed 
in  the  most  insulting  terms,  and  seemed  too  bold  for  a 
girl  to  have  written.  He  demanded  an  open  invest! 
gation,  and  had  the  entire  school  appear  before  the  fac- 
ulty and  examined  each  one,  but  no  one  acknowledged 
writing  the  note.  He  hardly  expected  an  open  confes- 
sion, but  sought  to  find  out  from  the  manner  of  the  stu- 
dents who  the  offender  w^as.  His  treatment  of  the  case 
was  severe  and  yet  so  mild  that  whoever  wrote  the  note 
must  have  felt  ashamed.  I  heard  his  lecture  to  the 
school,  and  I  certainly  should  have  felt  uncomfortable  if 
I  had  been  among  the  guilty.  1  think  some  of  the  stu- 
dents felt  so.  I  saw  several  blush  and  look  around  un- 
easily, among  them  the  two  girls  I  had  heard  talking  in 
the  class-room  door. 

The  matter  could  not  be  dropped  here,  though.  It 
had  gone  too  far.  My  friend  received  a  letter  from  the 
Bishop  of  the  Conference,  stating  that  he  had  been  ac- 
cused of  allowing  cheating  in  the  classes,  and  that  as 
the  school  was  partly  supported  by  the  Conference,  and 
belonged  to  the  Methodist  Church,  he  would  be  obliged 
to  submit  the  matter  to  the  Conference.  He  spoke 
kindly  of  my  friend's  work,  and  said  he  had  too  much 
confidence  in  him  to  believe  the  charge  was  true.  The 
accusers  had  given  their  names  to  the  Bishop — two  girls 
and  one  boy — but   they  asked  that  their  names  be  re- 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  171 

served  until  it  should  be  necessary  to  make  them  known. 
Of  course  my  friend  would  have  no  trouble  in  proving 
the  charge  entirely  false,  but  the  thought  of  its  having 
been  made  and  of  the  trying  examination  before  the 
Conference,  was  mortifying. 

The  publicity  given  to  my  daughter  angered  me 
more  than  anything  else  that  had  occurred  at  Walesca. 
I  determined  that  the  matter  should  be  stopped  at  once, 
if  possible.  I  thought  I  knew  the  culprits  who  had 
caused  the  trouble.  1  sent  for  them  to  come  to  my  of- 
fice. They  were  the  two  girls  I  had  heard  talking,  and 
the  Gaines  boy. 

"I  shall  speak  very  plainly  to  you.  You,  of  course, 
are  conscious  of  the  fact  that  you  have  made  a  false 
charge  against  a  man  who  is  giving  his  life  for  you,  in 
order  that  you  may  be  here,  a  man  who  labors  for  you 
and  who  loves  you,  and  whom  you  know  is  spotless.  On 
account  of  some  little  spite  you  have  allowed  yourselves 
to  do  what  compromises  you.  By  taking  this  matter  to 
Conference  you  will  prove  yourselves  guilty  of  falsehood, 
and  show  the  president  even  a  better  man  than  he  is 
known  to  be  in  the  Church.  Do  you  not  see  you  can  but 
harm  yourselves?" 

Gaines  protested  against  being  charged. 

"It  is  well  to  defend  yourself  when  you  are  right," 
I  replied,  "but  the  bravest  thing  a  man  can  do  is  to  con- 
fess a  fault.  You  have  no  doubt  consented  to  do  this 
without  realizing  what  the  result  would  be.  There  may 
be  excuses  for  a  man  who  acknowledges  his  wrong,  but 
none  for  him  who  clings  to  it.  I  am  as  confident  of 
your  guilt,  sir,  as  I  am  that  you  are  in  my  presence  now. 
I  see  your  heart  as  well  as  if  it  were  laid  bare  before  me." 

He  muttered  some  sarcastic  remark  about  my  insight 
of  character,  and  I  stopped  him. 

"Young  man,  can  you  tell  me  positively  that  you 
did  not  write  those  notes,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  writing  of  them?" 

He  looked  as  if  he  would  rather  be  anywhere  else 


172  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

than  where  he  was  just  then,  but  he  made  an  effort  at 
evasion. 

**I  knew  they  were  written." 

"Did  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  writing  of 
them?" 

"I  saw  them  written." 

Just  then  one  of  the  girls  broke  down  and  cried 
hysterically. 

*'It  is  no  use  to  deny  it,  Mr.  Gaines;  we  are 
wrong." 

He  looked  at  her  contemptuously,  and  turned  away. 
The  other  girl  began  to  abuse  her  for  betraying  a  friend, 
and  called  her  a  baby.  I  told  Gaines  and  this  young 
woman  that  they  might  retire. 

When  the  other  girl  had  regained  her  composure,  I 
asked  her  to  tell  me  the  whole  story.  Her  friend,  she 
said,  was  in  love  with  the  president,  and  wanted  to 
stand  well  in  her  classes  for  this  reason,  but  was  not  an 
industrious  student.  She  was  always  irritated  because 
Katherine  stood  better  than  she,  and  made  herself 
very  unpleasant  because  of  it.  The  president  took 
no  more  notice  of  her  than  of  other  members  of  the  class, 
and  marked  her  as  he  did  them.  Katherine,  she  said, 
had  a  habit  of  handling  her  book  in  class  and  opening  it, 
from  nervousness,  she  supposed.  I  had  noticed  it  but 
had  neglected  to  speak  to  her  about  it.  She  seemed  not 
to  know  it  at  all,  the  young  lady  said,  and  never  at- 
tempted to  see  the  lesson.  Her  friend  was  very  much 
angered  when  she  saw  her  last  report,  and  made  the  ac- 
cusation before  Gaines  that  Katherine  cheated,  and  that 
the  president  of  the  college  knew  it.  Gaines  suggested 
the  course  they  pursued.  They  talked  so  much  about  it 
as  a  fact  that  she  came  to  believe  that  Katherine  meant  to 
cheat,  but  she  had  thought  about  it  since  and  had  no- 
ticed her,  and  knew  it  was  not  true.  Mr.  Gaines  was  in 
love  with  her  friend,  she  said,  and  knew  that  she  cared 
for  the  president,  and  was  glad  of  the  opportunity. 

I  talked  to  the   girl  about  the  enormity  of  the  of- 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  178 

fense,  but  she  seemed  already  to  realize  it.  She  was 
brave  enough  to  go  to  the  president  and  acknowledge 
her  ^uilt  and  express  her  sorrow.  With  his  usual  for- 
bearance, he  forgave  her,  but  was  stern  enough  to  re- 
quire an  open  confession  before  the  school.  If  a  student 
can  stand  a  test  like  this,  he  or  she  is  truly  repentent, 
and  exhibits  great  strength  of  character  besides.  It  was 
for  her  good,  not  for  his  triumph.  She  would  try  to 
persuade  her  friend  to  adopt  the  same  course,  and  I  told 
the  president  that  I  would  talk  to  both  the  girl  and 
Gaines;  but  the  next  morning,  before  I  had  left  my 
room,  news  came  that  Gaines  and  the  girl  had  gone. 

The  next  day  the  following  notice  appeared  in  the 
paper:  "Canton,  Ga,,  Nov.  10,  188-.  Married  by  the 
Rev.  John  James,  at  his  residence,  at  eight  o'clock  this 
morning.  Miss  Fannie  Mercer  to  George  Gaines,  both 
fitudents  of  Rheinhardt  College.  The  couple  ran  away 
this  morning  and  arrived  in  Canton  about  seven  o'clock. 
They  went  to  the  home  of  the  bride  to  be  taken  care  of 
by  her  parents." 

In  after  years  Gaines  became  an  industrious, 
worthy.  Christian  man,  and  his  wife  a  noble  Christian 
woman.  Three  years  after  the  occurrence  just  related, 
they  wrote  my  friend  a  joint  letter  of  acknowledgment 
and  regret,  and  expressed  their  gratitude  for  his  efforts 
for  them  and  his  influence  over  them. 

I  wrote  to  the  Bishop  and  sent  him  the  statement  of 
the  young  woman  who  acknowledged  her  fault.  He  ac- 
cepted it  and  the  matter  was  dropped. 

Katherine  had  been  much  troubled,  though,  and  I 
felt  that  if  she  should  have  more  to  bear,  she  would  age 
too  much  during  her  experience  at  Walesca ;  though  it  is 
good  even  for  girls  to  have  burdens  to  bear.  I  took  her 
on  a  round  of  visits  to  relieve  her  mind  of  thoughts 
of  herself.  The  cracker  girls  loved  her  much,  and  dur- 
ing this  visit  she  persuaded  three  of  them  to  go  to 
school. 

Sometimes  I  thought  Katherine  knew  something  of 


174  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

Mol's  whereabouts.  Instead  of  speaking  sadly  of  her 
having  left  her  home  and  her  mother,  she  always  spoke 
hopefully,  and  seemed  not  to  have  the  regrets  that  I  had. 
She  was  a  great  comfort  to  Mol's  mother,  as  she  was  also 
to  the  old  man,  whose  sweetheart  had  left  him  so  long 
ago.  Once  he  gave  Katherine  a  small  package. 
**  'Twas  hers,"  he  said,  "an'  1  know  she'd  'a'  wanted  the 
like  o'  you  ter  have  it."  It  was  a  tiny  gold  breastpin. 
* 'She's  more  comfortin'  ter  me  'n  ennybody  these  days,. 
Mr.  Ramla,"  he  said  to  me. 

I  overheard  them  talking  at  the  grave  one  day. 
"You  reckin  lettle  May '11  be  glad  ter  see  me,  Miss  Katy  ? 
Mebbe  she's  so  happy  now  't  won't  make  her  no  happier 
fur  me  ter  come." 

"I  think  it  will,  Mr.  Brown.  She  has  waited  for 
your  coming  all  these  years,  and  it  will  surely  be  a  joy 
to  her.  Now,  in  that  wonderful  city,  she  revels  in 
intoxicating  bliss,  but  memory  never  loses  its  freshness, 
even  in  eternity,  and  she  thinks  of  this  hallowed  spot, 
not  to  her  a  lonely  grave,  but  a  place  where  loneliness 
can  never  come,  because  here  were  plighted  vows  that 
bound  two  lives  so  closely  that  even  the  powerful  hand 
of  death  could  not  break  them.  She  thinks  of  her 
mother  in  the  sweet,  peaceful  home  down  yonder,  and  of 
you ;  and  now  and  then  she  sweeps  on  soft  pinions  to  the 
eternal  gates  and  asks,  *Is  he  coming?'  The  angel  an- 
swers, 'No,'  and  she  returns,  not  sorrowing,  but  wait- 
ing. Some  day,  though,  the  angel  will  answer,  'Yes,' 
and  with  voice  of  supremest  gladness  she  will  express 
gratitude  to  God.  The  heraldic  angel  will  shout  so  that 
his  voice  will  reach  the  limits  of  heaven,  'The  old  man 
has  come.'  Then  together  you  will  fly  to  the  white 
throne  and  bow  in  fullness  of  joy  and  gratitude  for  an 
eternal  benediction  upon  yourselves  and  the  vows 
pledged  here." 

*'So  may  it  be,"  the  old  man  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

It  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  year.  The  young 
people  were  all  looking  forward  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
holidays. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  when  the  school  term  end- 
ed, Bill  had  a  party.  It  was  a  corn-shucking  and  an 
apple-butter- boiling  combined.  A  large  number  of  boys 
and  girls  were  present. 

"Goin'  to  put  'm  to  work,"  said  Bill.  ''The  girls 
can  help  mam  make  apple  butter,  an'  the  boys  can  help 
me  shuck  corn." 

They  separated,  the  girls  going  to  one  room  and  the 
boys  to  another. 

"This  is  bad,"  I  said;  "the  boys  and  girls  would 
like  to  see  something  of  each  other.  You  are  not  a  good 
business  man.  Bill.  They  would  work  better  for  being 
together." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  first-class  business  man.  You  see, 
I  separate  'm  and  tell  'm,  'Now,  the  sooner  you  git 
through,  the  sooner  you  git  together.'  They  work 
harder  than  you  ever  saw  folks.  The  only  thing  is  the 
girls  make  the  apple  butter  boil  so  fast  that  sometimes 
it  burns.  It's  a  heap  better'n  putting  'm  together. 
When  they're  together  they  talk  too  much  to  work  good, 
and  the  first  thing  you  know  some  boy's  got  his  gal  off 
makin'  love  to  her,  an'  they  ain't  workin'  'tall.  Then, 
too,  corn  husks  get  in  the  apple  butter,  an'  it  ain't  good 
seasoned  with  'm." 

I  felt  privileged  to  visit  both  rooms.  Bill  was 
right.  They  worked  well  separately  that  they  might 
have  pleasure  together  later.  Bill  was  privileged,  too, 
and   "w^ent   from   room   to   room  hurrying  the  workers. 

175 


176  DOWN   AMONG  THB  CRACKERS 

The  girls  gathered  around  the  apple  butter,  which  boiled 
in  a  large  vessel.  When  some  tired  of  stirring,  others 
came  to  take  their  places,  and  the  stirring  went  on  until 
the  apple  butter  was  done.  The  boys  sat  around  the 
corn  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  shucking  rapidly,  and 
singing  the  old  field  songs. 

"Make  haste,  fellers;  the  girls  's  most  through," 
said  Bill. 

"Hurry  up,  girls;  the  boys  work  a  heap  faster'n 
you;"  and  so  it  went  on  until  they  were  all  through. 

They  then  met  in  one  room  and  their  games  began: 
"Clapping  in  and  clapping  out,"  "King  William," 
"Going  over  the  mountain,"  and  a  number  of  others.  I 
had  never  seen  a  happier  crowd,  and  1  wondered  if  they 
could  have  found  in  more  refined  pleasures  the  sams 
rich  joy. 

"I  don't  like  this  like  I  used  to,  Mr.  Ramla,"  said 
Bill;  "and  how  I  do  miss  Mol!." 

"Father,  I  have  never  seen  anything  so  refreshing 
as  this,"  Katherine  said;  "but  it  is  pitiful,  too.  When 
will  refinement   and  culture  control  here?" 

She  could  not  enjoy  participating  in  the  cracker 
games,  and  now  and  then  would  pleal  weariness. 
Callaway  was  present,  but  he  was  the  gentleman  that 
night.  He  and  Katherine  conversed  much  during  the 
evening.  It  was  what  I  feared  when  I  brought  her  to 
Walesca.  He  was  more  congenial  in  conversation  than 
the  crackers.  Katherine  was  perfectly  dignified,  how- 
ever, and  her  companion  perfectly  respectful.  I  would 
not  be  foolish  again,  and  so  allowed  them  to  talk. 

Bill  finally  stopped  the  playing,  and  called  the  boys 
and  girls  together. 

"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you,  but  I  ain't  goin' 
ter  be  a  goose,  like  I  was  at  commencement  year  before 
last.  You  all  know  me,  boys  and  girls,  know  all  about 
me,  and  you  know  I  ain't  done  no  good  in  the  world 
for  twenty-two  years." 

"You's  er  fust-class  chap,  Bill,"  some  one  said. 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  177 

"No,  I  ain't  no  good,  and  ain't  never  been  none, 
but  I'm  tryin'  to  make  somethin'  out  of  nothin'  and  I 
don't  eay  itboastin',  but  some  day  you'll  see  a  man  out 
of  lazy,  good-for-nothin'  Bill  Collins.  I  didn't  get  up 
here  to  tell  you  how  much  I  know,  but  Perfessor  says 
I'm  doin'  right  well,  and  I  believe  he  ain't  flatterin'  me. 
However  that  is,  I  want  to  tell  you  all  how  much  better 
'tis  to  go  to  school  and  make  somethin'  out  o'  your- 
selves than  to  do  like  I've  been  doin'  up  to  two  years 
ago." 

"You  don't  look  no  better'n  you  wus  'fore  you 
went  ter  college,"  said  some  one. 

"Maybe  I  don't  look  no  better,"  replied  Bill,  "but 
I  feel  better." 

"You  allurs  did  feel  mighty  big,"  cried  another. 
"I  don't  feel's  big's  I  did,  and  that's  the  reason  I 
know  I'm  bigger.  Howsomever,  we  won't  talk  'bout 
that;  I  want  3^ou  all  to  go  to  school.  You  been  foolin' 
about  long  enough.  If  you  was  to  find  a  gold  dollar  in 
the  road,  you  wouldn't  wait  three  or  four  years  to  pick 
it  up,  would  you?  But  here's  gold  sense  v^aitin'  to  be 
picked  up,  and  you  just  leave  it  'lone." 
They  commenced  hissing  him. 

"It'8  the  last  time  I'll  come  ter  your  house,  big-Ike 
Bill,"  a  boy  said  when  the  hissing  ceased.  "Ever'  time 
I  come  you  boast  o'  what  you's  makin'  'o  yerself ,  an' 
tries  ter  pull  me  ter  school,  whin  I  ain't  a-goin'.  I's 
goin'  ter  wait  an'  see  ef  you  make  ennythin'  more'n 
you's  been,  an'  thin  I  kin  try;  plenty  o'  time  thin." 

"No,  thar  ain't,"  another  said;  ''you'll  die  'fore  he 
does  it;"  and  they  began  hissing  again. 

"That's  all  right,  boys ;  you  can  keep  on  hissin' ; 
it  ain't  very  polite,  but  it  don't  matter  to  me ;  you'll  see 
in  a  year  or  two  that  I'm  right.  A  boy  or  girl  ain't  got 
no  right  to  w^aste  their  lives  and  never  do  themselves  or 
anybody  else  any  good." 

"I  reckin  we  kin  do  whg-t  we  please  with  ourselves, " 
some  one  said;   "I'm  my  own  boss." 


178  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

"Yes  you  can  steal,  too,  but  you  ain't  got  no  right 
to  do  it.  Some  of  these  days  you'll  run  against  the 
sheriff,  and  he'll  show  you  about  your  rights.  You  ain't 
got  no  real  rights  but  to  be  men  and  women,  and  bless 
the  world.  If  you  don't  do  that,  up  yonder  you'll  be 
judged  for  that  the  same  as  for  stealin'  a  big  chaw  o* 
tobacco." 

One  young  man  arose  and  said  : 

"Well,  thar's  somthing  'bout  it;  some  o'  you  say 
you  don't  see  no  change  in  Bill.  I  do.  I  started  out 
hissin'  him  'ith  the  rest  o'  you,  but  I  stopped  whin  Bill 
sed  what  he  did  'bout  not  makin'no  dif'rence  with  him. 
He  stood  it,  but  he  wouldn't  er  done  't  two  year  ago. 
He'd  er  tried  ter  fight  the  whole  lot  o'  us.  I  don't  b'lieve 
he  keers  fur  fightin'  now.  I  dunno  whether  he's  got 
'ligion  or  gotl'arnin',  but  he's  got  somethin'  he  didn't 
use  ter  have,  an'  I  b'lieve  we'd  better  listen  ter  what 
he's  er  sayin' ;  leastwise,  I's  goin'  ter  listen.  Bill,  you 
kin  look  out  fur  me  over  at  Warlesky  nex'  year;  I's 
comin'  sure." 

Others  expressed  themselves  in  the  same  manner. 
Bill  had  gained  a  great  triumph. 

"Ef  it  keeps  on  so,  the  whole  country'll  be  at  War- 
esky  arter  er  while :  better  make  more  room  ter  er 
school-house.  Bill,"  a  good-natured  boy  said. 

"Plenty  of  room  for  all,"  Bill  responded. 

The  visitors  left.  I  congratulated  Bill,  but  he 
said: 

'"Tain'tme;   'tis  you  and  Perfessor." 

The  next  school  term  six  other  crackers  entered 
school.     Bill  was  a  home  missionary. 

Katherine  and  I  went  home  the  next  day,  and  my 
friend  went  to  spend  the  holidays  with  me.  He  enjoyed 
the  change  for  a  day  or  two,  but  he  was  thoroughly 
broken  down  from  the  trying  experiences  that  had 
marked  his  life  for  several  years.  He  grew  listless,  and 
was  constantly  excusing  himself  for  his  dullness. 

At  last,  one  night,  I  was  relating  something  to  him, 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CJIACKERS  179 

and  listened  for  an  answer.  He  did  not  reply,  and  I 
looked  to  where  he  was  sitting.  He  had  fainted  in  his 
chair.  For  weeks  he  was  very  ill.  His  mother  came 
and  nursed  him,  and  when  the  time  for  opening  school 
came,  I  went  back  to  Walesca  with  Katherine  until  my 
friend  was  well. 

Once  or  twice  in  years  gone  by  burglars  had  at- 
tempted to  enter  our  house.  Once  they  did  enter,  and 
left  with  whatever  they  could  take,  including  a  valua- 
ble gold  watch  that  had  belonged  to  my  grandfather.  I 
remember  his  telling  me  that  when  he  bought  it  in  Ge- 
neva he  asked  where  the  best  watches  were  sold,  and 
was  told  at  every  jewelry  store,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
get  a  watch  of  inferior  make  in  Geneva.  This  seemed 
strange  to  me,  American  jewelers  sometimes  palm  off 
such  inferior  works.  In  the  inner  case,  in  black  enamel, 
were  my 'grandfather's  initals.  After  the  watch  had 
been  gone  ten  years,  a  man  had  been  arrested  for  steal- 
ing a  horse,  and  on  his  person  the  watch  was  found. 

Well,  this  watch  I  had  left  in  the  room  which  my 
friend  occupied,  in  a  small  jewelry  caoe  in  my  trunk. 
When  my  friend  was  getting  better,  and  could  be  alone 
at  night,  he  had  a  peculiar  experience.  About  twelve 
o'clock  some  one  entered  the  room ;  he  was  conscious  of 
the  fact,  though  not  fully  aroused  from  sleep.  He  heard 
no  further  sound,  saw  nothing,  and  concluded  he  had 
been  dreaming.  Presently,  however,  he  seemed  to  be- 
come conscious  that  two  men  were  standing  over  his  bed. 
But  he  appeared  to  be  under  some  subtle  influence,  and 
could  not  arouse  himself.  The  men  made  signs  about 
him,  and  though  he  was  almost  unconscious,  he  heard 
them  speaking : 

"I  hate  doing  this.  If  I  had  known  he  was  inhere 
I  never  would  have  entered  the  house.  He's  sick,  and 
I'm  afraid  he  won't  get  over  this.  Suppose  we've  mur- 
dered him!" 

"Don't  be  so  chicken-hearted;  you're  afraid  of 
your  own  shadow.     Suppose  he  does  die,  what  of  that? 


180  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

They've  been  expecting  him  to  die,  and  they'll  think 
the  disease  killed  him.  Nobody  will  ever  know  the 
difference?  But  somebody  may  come  in  to  see  how  he 
is.     We  must  get  through." 

My  friend  heard  them  moving  about  the  room,  but 
could  not  move  himself  nor  turn  his  eyes  to  see  them. 
There  was  bare  consciousness,  that  was  all.  They  came 
to  the  bed  again. 

"By  heavens!  I  believe  he's  dead,"  one  said.  "Oh, 
to  have  killed  my  best  friend!  This  will  end  burglary 
for  me ;  it  is  my  first,  and  it  shall  be  my  last  exper- 
ience." 

**lt  is  because  it  is  your  first  experience  that  you 
mre  so  foolish.  He  is  not  dead.  We  must  be  oif. 
Come." 

And  he  started  out,  byt  the  other  stayed  a  moment, 
looked  to  see  if  his  accomplice  had  gone,  stooped  quick- 
ly and  kissed  my  friend's  brow.     Then  he,  too,  left. 

In  the  morning,  about  ten  o'clock,  my  friend 
awoke.  He  was  alone,  and  the  room  looked  as  it  had 
before  he  went  to  sleep.  Not  a  chair  seemed  to  have 
been  moved.  He  felt  an  uncomfortable  dullness.  That 
was  all  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  experience  of 
the  night  had  been  a  reality.  He  rang  the  bell  and  his 
mother  came. 

"You  were  sleeping  so  quietly  that  I  would  not  dis- 
turb you,"  she  said.  "You  have  rested  well,  and  you 
are  better." 

He  told  her  that  he  had  rested  well,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  horrible  nightmare.  He  then  related  his 
experience,  but  did  not  intimate  that  he  feared  it  was 
really  true.  In  fact,  he  told  me  that  after  being  re- 
freshed by  his  breakfast,  and  thinking  calmly  over  the 
matter  he  did  not  give  much  credence  to  its  being  a 
reality. 

He  recovered  rapidly  after  that,  and  soon  returned 
to  college.  I  told  him  that  nothing  unpleasant  had  oc- 
curred during  his  absence.     He  laughed  and  said  he  had 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKEES  181 

been  afraid  to  entrust  the  college  to  my  care  before,  but 
since  I  had  kept  the  boys  straight  this  time,  he  would 
try  me  again,  not  to  have  a  spell  of  sickness  but  a  jolly 
good  time. 

He  told  me  of  the  experience  I  have  just  related, 
and  I  replied  : 

*'I'll  guarantee  that  the  men  were  really  burglars, 
and  I  think  I  might  guess  who  they  were ;  but  no,  it 
would  be  unkind." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  school  was  nearing  the  close  of  its  term,  and 
we  had  decided  to  have  a  pleasant  excursion  of  a  week 
or  two  to  a  lake  about  thirty  miles  off,  noted  for  its 
good  fishing.  We  would  take  tents  and  camp  out.  We 
intended  to  have  a  large  party  of  students  with  us,  and 
my  wife  would  come  to  chaperon  the  girls. 

We  started  before  dawn  two  days  after  commence- 
ment, and  the  fresh  dews  of  the  mountains  cooled  and 
refreshed  us  for  a  happy  day.  The  young  people  were 
hilarious.  I  almost  wished  to  be  young  with  them.  It 
takes  so  little  to  gladden  the  spirit  of  youth.  A  balmy 
breeze,  a  genial  sunray,  a  happy  thought,  a  pleasant 
exchange  of  words,  and  the  heart  bounds  with  joy  and 
life.     With  the  old  it  is  different. 

At  eight  in  the  evening  we  reached  the  lake.  With 
common  impulse  we  came  to  a  halt  some  distance  from 
the  placid  sheet  of  water.  The  horses,  too  seemed  to 
stop  of  their  own  desire  to  witness  the  scene.  One 
would  almost  dare  believe  that  they,  also,  had  senti- 
ment.    There  was  no  grandeur,  but  such  peace ! 

I  remember  that  the  first  large  art  collection  I  ever 
visited  was  the  Corcoran  Gallery  in  Washington.  Some 
one  asked  me  what  painting  I  liked  best  in  the  gallery. 
I  readily  replied,  "Csesar  Dead."  ''That  is  considered 
the  finest,"  was  the  rejoinder,  ''but  I  like  that  little 
Connecticut  landscape  the  best."  I  had  noticed  the 
picture,  and  its  quiet  beauty  had  impressed  me.  But  I 
passed  it  by  quickly  in  order  to  give  more  time  to  the 
more  showy  canvas,  so  when  my  interlocutor  spoke,  I 
felt  rather  ashamed  that  I  had  not  given  it  more 
thought.     Since  then  I  have  always  looked  out  for  the 

182 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKEKS  183 

little  "Connecticut  Landscapes"  in  life.  They  quiet 
perturbed  spirits,  rest  the  weary  brain,  and  give  inspi- 
ration to  the  higher  nature. 

In  a  little  cove  in  the  mountains,  a  small  basin  of 
water,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  width  and  a 
half  a  mile  in  length,  stretched  its  smooth  surface  be- 
fore us.  Rugged  and  rough  looked  the  hills  that  en- 
closed it,  and  I  thought  of  the  diamond,  with  its  brown 
crust  around  the  sparkling  crystal.  The  canopy  of 
heaven  curved  above  it,  and  out  of  the  deep  blue  a 
thousand  stars  sent  down  their  beams,  that  blended  in 
one  soft  light,  casting  on  the  lake  a  siWery  radiance. 
The  moon  rose  slowly  between  the  hills  like  a  great  ball 
of  fire.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  trees  that  stretched 
their  limbs  to  keep  its  light  from  the  lake  should  blaze 
from  their  apparent  close  contact  with  it.  But  the  fire 
died  out,  and  the  moon  rising  above  the  shade  of  the 
trees,  swung  triumphantly  in  the  heavens,  and  hung  as 
a  silver  ball  over  the  lake.  Moonlight  is  beautiful 
everywhere,  but  nowhere  so  beautiful  as  on  the  placid 
waters  of  a  mountain  lake. 

We  pitched  our  tents,  prepared  supper,  and  after  it 
was  served  went  out  in  some  little  boats  upon  the  en- 
chanted water.  The  ring  of  merry  voices  sounded  along 
the  hills,  and  many  an  echo  returned  the  glad  sound. 

In  the  early  morning  the  fishing  began,  and  we 
breakfasted  on  trout  and  perch.  The  sport  was  carried 
on  more  extensively  afterward,  when  the  whole  party 
sat  on  rough  roots  watching  the  lines  as  they  dipped, 
and  throwing  now  and  then  a  floundering  fish  upon  the 
bank. 

Bill  had  a  right  to  be  proud ;  he  was  the  best  angler 
of  the  party.  But  there  was  a  better  than  he  on  the 
lake.  Soon  after  beginning  the  sport  for  the  day  we 
noticed  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  a  queer-looking 
human  creature  fishing.  Even  Bill  had  never  looked  so 
eccentric  in  dress  and  person  as  this  boy.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  cracker  whom  enlightenment  had  not  reached. 


184  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"These  folks  is  worse  than  us,  Mr.  Ramla,  if  they're 
all  like  that  fellow.  I'm  afraid  you'll  leave  us  and 
come  up  here." 

My  friend  and  I  went  to  where  the  boy  was.  We 
spoke  pleasantly  to  him.  He  did  not  even  look  up,  but 
simply  said : 

'♦Mornin'." 

We  felt  somewhat  repulsed,  and  spoke  to  him  again, 
asking  about  the  best  fishing  places. 

"It's  good  'nough  on  t'other  side  whar  you  come 
frum,  I  guess;  but  nobody  couldn't  ketch  nothin'  'ith 
the  screamin'  that's  goin'  on  over  thar.  It  gits  in  the 
water  an'  comes  floatin  over  here  pesterin'  the  fish  I'se 
thro  win'  fur.  You  think  fish  like  talkin?  They  ain't 
that  kind.  They  like  quiet,  peacable  chaps  like  me  that 
don't  show  their  sense  out'n  their  mouth.  Folks  loses 
eense  ef  they  keep  talkin'  it  out.  Arter  er  while  they'll 
find  they's  right  empty  in  the  skull.  I  keep  all  mine 
right  whar  it  belongs,  whar  the  wind  can't  blow  it  away. 
— Thar,  I'd  er  caught  that  flounder  ef  you  hadn't  come 
botherin'  me.  I  tell  you  ag'in,  fish  ain't  ketched  by 
talkin.  They'se  ketched  by  er  hook  that  don't  'pear  ter 
have  no  hand  ter  drap  it,  nor  no  head  ter  watch  it." 

We  said  nothing,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  ex- 
claimed: 

"Now  I'se  got  you  !  You  thought  you'd  'scape, did 
you?  I  know'd  you  wouldn't.  You  see  what  I  git  by 
not  talkin' — the  best  fish  in  the  lake.  This  feller  got 
skeered  when  we  wus  talkin'  er  while  ago,  an'  swum 
right  over  ter  t'other  side,  and  they  yelled  so  over  thar 
it  skeered  him  back,  an'  he  thought  he'd  come  up  ter  see 
what  vms  the  matter.  Go  over  quick  an'  tell  'm  to  keep 
up  the  yellin'.     It  helps  my  bizness." 

We  laughed,  and  asked  him  to  teach  us  the  art  of 
wielding  the  hook  and  line  and  to  divide  his  success  with 
us. 

"Now,  that  ain't  'zactly  fair.  You  fellers  's  fishin' 
fur  fun,  and  I'se  fishin'  fur  biznese.     I  sell  these  things 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  186 

an'  makes  er  heap  o'  money,  but  trade's  sorter  slow  now 
and  they  may  not  sell ;  so  you  kin  fish  er  longside  er  me, 
I  reckin,  an'  ketch  what  you  kin,  an'  you  jes'  watch 
how  I  handle  the  pole," 

We  did  80  and  caught  nothing,  but  our  companion's 
success  remained  the  same.     We  asked  him  why  it  was. 

"'Cazeyou'se  watchin'  how  I  handle  the  pole,  an' 
you  ain't  watchin' the  fish  bite.  You  could  er  caught 
'most  's  many  's  me  ef  you'd  tried  right.  That's  what 
I  tole  you  ter  look  't  me  fur.  I  know'd  you  warn't  cross- 
eyed and  couldn't  look  two  ways  't  wunst,  but  I's  purty 
nigh  done  now,  an'  you  kin  watch  the  fish.  A  man  has 
ter  look  out  fur  his  bizness,  you  see,  an'  I'se  the  btst 
man  at  that  you  ever  know'd." 

We  asked  him  where  he  sold  his  fish. 

"Up  here  't  the  boardin'  house.  Folks  come  ter 
fish,  an'  they  board,  an'  I  ketch  the  fish,  an'  they  has 
ter  buy  'm.  It's  er  great  way  ter  do,  but  thar  ain't  no- 
body o'  'm  that  kin  ketch  fish,  an'  they  has  ter  buy  'm — 
them  folks  that  tents  like  you'ns  buys  'mtoo.  Don't  you 
want  ter  buy  some.?" 

"Have  you  a  good  school  here?"  I  asked. 

''School?     What's  that?" 

I  tried  to  tell  him. 

"Naw,  ain't  got  nothin'  o'  that  kind.  Thar  wus  er 
place  sorter  like  you  say  'bout  five  miles  from  here,  but 
I  soon  broke  that  up.  We  uns  don't  want  ter  be  pestered 
'ith  nothin'  o'  that  sort.  I  never  went  ter  it,  but  they 
tole  me  they  done  sorter  like  you  say,  an'  they  made 
folks  spend  money  fur  books  an'  pay  ter  Tarn  out  o'  'm, 
an'  I  know'd  we  wouldn't  have  no  money  in  the  country 
ef  that  kep'  up;  so  the  teacher — I  b'lieve  that's  what 
you  call  'm — he  come  over  ter  the  lake  one  night  ter 
fish,  an'  I  wus  here,  an'  he  got  ter  talkin'  'bout  my  goin' 
ter  him  and  larnin',  an'  I  tole  him  I'd  I'arned  all  I 
wanted  ter  know,  an'  I  didn't  think  he  could  Tarn  me 
no  more  ef  I  hadn't;  an'  he  kep'  talkin',  an'  I  tole  him 
as  how  he'd  talked 'nough ;  an'   he  wouldn't  stop,   an' 


186  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

thin  I  jea'  tripped  him  right  short,  an'  he  fell  in  the  wa- 
ter. He  couldn't  swim,  an' I  couldn't  neither,  but  that 
\^arn't  nothin'  to  me  right  thin,  'caze  I  warn't  in  the  wa- 
ter  ;  but  it  'peared  ter  be  er  lively  question  ter  the  teacher, 
an'  he  hollered  an'  spattered.  I  tole  him  he  wus  gittin' 
me  wet,  but  he  didn't  stop  spatterin'  in  the  water,  an' 
thin  whin  he'd  been  down  an'  come  up  ag'in  I  axed  him 
ef  he  wus  goin'  ter  stop  pesterin'  me;an'  he  said  me  an' 
ever'bodj  else  here;  an'  thin  I  throw'd  him  er  pole  an' 
dragged  him  out.  He  kep'  his  word;  he  lef  that  night, 
an'  thar  ain't  been  nobody  ter  teach  here  since." 

Just  then  another  cracker  boy  came  up,  and  the  one 
who  had  been  talking  to  us  said : 

"This  feller's  the  biggest  story-teller  in  the  country. 
Ef  you  axed  him  'bout  what  I  tole  you  he'd  say  't  warn't 
so.  Say,  Zeke,  tell  these  folks  here  why  you  don't  tell 
the  truth." 

**'Caze  my  mam  made  me  promise  jes'  'fore  she 
drap'd  off  that  I  never  would  tell  the  truth,  an'  I'm  er 
man  o'  my  word,  ef  mam  ain't  livin'  ter  know  it." 

We  talked  to  this  boy  a  while,  and  he  substantiated 
his  friend's  charge.  I  never  saw  such  real  pride  in  false- 
hood. When  men  tell  what  is  not  true,  it  is  usually  un- 
der the  garb  of  truth,  and  they  indignantly  resent  any 
suggestion  of  its  being  falge.  This  boy  gloried  in  abso- 
lute, open  falsehood. 

We  stayed  our  allotted  time  and  returned  to  Walesca. 
Callaway  and  his  sister  were  with  us.  His  sister  had 
been  in  school  that  year,  and  she  seemed  a  law-abiding, 
studious  girl.  Katherine  and  she  had  become  good 
friends.  I  did  not  like  their  friendship  at  first,  and 
thought  of  forbidding  any  intimacy,  but  Katherine,  an- 
ticipating this,  said  : 

"Father,  you  would  not  have  me  be  unkind  to  a 
-worthy  girl  because  her  brother's  life  has  not  been  up- 
right?" and  I  said  : 

"No." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

I  came  back  in  the  fall  before  the  beginning  of  tb© 
next  term.  When  I  called  on  Bill  a  few  days  later  he  said 
he  was  very  much  troubled  about  something,  and  would 
be  glad  for  me  to  advise  him. 

"I've  been  gettin'  along  with  that  man  Callaway 
right  well,  but  he's  bothered  me  more  lately  than  he 
ever  did  before.  He  come  here  the  other  day,  and  I 
was  very  p'lite  to  him,  and  mam  and  the  chillun  was, 
too,  and  he  was  very  nice  for  a  while,  but  arter  lookin' 
like  he  didn't  know  how  to  say  somethin'  he  had  to  say, 
I  asked  him  plain  what  was  the  matter;  and  he  said 
he'd  like  to  know  if  I'd  heard  from  Mol,  but  he  kinder 
hated  to  ask  me.  I  told  him  I  had  not,  but  that  her 
mother  heard  sometimes,  though  she  didn't  know  where 
Mol  was.  Then  he  pulled  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket  and 
said  he  heard  from  Mol,  and  let  on  like  he'd  been  hearin' 
all  the  time.  He  wouldn't  let  me  see  the  letter,  but  he 
read  me  a  part  of  it  and  said  he  couldn't  show  me  the 
rest,  but  I  might  guess  what  'twas;  and  then  he  said  he 
hated  to  tell  me,  but  he  and  Mol  was  goin'  to  be  married 
some  time,  he  wouldn't  say  when.  He  felt  mighty  sorry 
for  me,  he  said,  but  he  thought  he'd  better  tell  me  it 
ivarn't  no  use  my  lovin'  her.  I  asked  him  where  she 
was,  but  he  wouldn't  tell,  and  I  said,  'Look  here,  Calla- 
w^ay,  when  a  boy  loves  a  girl  he  don't  want  to  be  fooled 
with;  I  want  to  know  if  what  you're  tellin'  me  is  the 
truth?'  And  he  said  it  certainly  was;  and  then  I  told 
him  plain  I  didn't  believe  it.  But  somehow  it  looks 
mightily  that  way,  Mr.  Ramla,  and  I  do  'most  believe  it. 
There's  no  'countin'  on  Callaway  ;  he's  been  a  lot  better, 
I  know,  but  there  ain't  no  tellin'." 

187 


188  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKEES 

I  reminded  him  of  what  Callaway  once  did  about  a 
note  Bill  wrote  to  Mol. 

*'Do  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Ramla?" 

I  frankly  said,  *'No." 

''Then  I'll  be  doubtful  too." 

T  determined  to  try  to  find  out  s©mething  definite 
about  Mol,  and  one  day  1  sent  for  Callaway : 

"Mr.  Callaway,  I  hear  you  have  definite  knowledge 
of  Mollie  Smith.  She  has  been  gone  so  long,  and  her 
mother  has  heard  nothing  from  her  except  an  occasional 
note,  that  I  know  she  would  receive  your  news  with  joy 
if  you  would  even  tell  her  where  her  daughter  is.  You 
ought  to  do  this  in  consideration  of  a  mother's  love." 

"I  think  so  too,  Mr.  Ramla.  I  told  Miss  Mary  her 
mother  ought  to  know  something  about  her,  and  insisted 
on  her  allowing  me  to  tell  her,  but  she  would  not  con- 
Bent  to  it." 

"Have  you  seen  Mollie  since  she  left?"  I  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

He  was  confused  but  answered,  "No." 

"Have  you  heard  from  her  often?" 

"I  think  this  is  a  private  matter,"  he  replied  with 
some  dignity. 

"I  understand  that  you  are  engaged  to  Miss  Smith, 
Mr.  Callaway,  and  if  that  is  true  you  have  a  right  to  re- 
serve personal  matters  from  me  ;  but  I  am  Mollie' s  friend 
and  her  mother's ,  and  I  do  not  consider  that  I  have 
asked  you  too  personal  a  question." 

"I  have  heard  from  her  only  once,  then,  if  you  insist 
upon  knowing;  but  that  communication  was  enough.  I 
insist  upon  your  reading  it." 

"Not  if  it  is  a  personal  matter,  Mr.  Callaway." 

"Yes;  I  insist  upon  your  reading  it." 

"Have  you  a  right  to  believe  that  Mollie  would  not 
object?" 

"I  have  a  right  to  believe  that  she  would  be  glad  for 
you  to  read  it  under  the  circumstances.  It  would  relieve 
me,  and  she  would  be  glad  to  do  that." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  189 

It  was  a  simple  note,  stating  that  she  had  learned 
to  love  him  after  a  long  absence,  and  did  not  consider  it 
unwomanly  to  tell  him  so,  since  he  had  so  often  urged 
her  to  cultivate  some  feeling  of  affection  for  him,  and 
she  had  made  a  promise  once  that  if  she  ever  cared  for 
him  she  would  tell  him  of  her  feeling.  They  might  be 
married  when  he  was  able  to  take  care  of  her,  but  until 
then  she  thought  she  had  better  not  see  or  hear  from  him, 
there  had  always  been  so  much  trouble  about  Bill.  ''Poor 
Bill!"  she  wrote,  "it  is  right  that  you  should  tell  him." 

"Of  course  some  one  wrote  the  note  for  her?"  I 
queried. 

"Of  course,"  he  said. 

I  looked  at  the  postmark. 

"Mr.  Callaway,  you  will  excuse  my  queries;  I  am 
interested  in  this  matter.  It  is  a  very  strange  thing  to 
me  that  you,  a  boy  of  aristocratic  blood,  and  whose 
family  has  social  prestige,  should  think  of  caring  for  a 
mountain  girl  of  cracker  family,  and  without  educa- 
tion." 

"It  is  strange  to  me,"  he  said,  "and  if  my  people 
knew  it  they  would  violently  oppose  it;  but  I  have  been 
very  reckless,  you  know,  and  I  want  to  settle  down  and 
live  a  better  life.  Mary  Smith  is  the  best  girl  I  know, 
and  will  help  me  more  in  leading  a  good  life  than  any 
other  woman  who  would  marry  me." 

"That  is  a  proper  feeling,  Mr.  Callaway,  and  I 
am  glad  you  have  it,  but  there  is  selfishness  in  it.  Have 
you  considered  what  such  a  girl  as  Mollie  deserves  in  a 
husband?  You  are  marrying  for  your  own  good 
alone." 

'  'I  know  I  am  not  worthy  of  her,  but  the  difference 
in  social  elevation  will  balance  in  some  way  my  defect 
of  character." 

"That  is  a  commentary  upon  society,  Mr.  Callaway, 
but  it  is  largely  true.  Most  girls  would  consider  it  suf- 
ficient, but  if  Mollie  loves  you,  she  loves  you  for  your- 
self, in  spite  of  all  your  vices,  and  not  for  your  posi- 


190  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

"That  is  true,"  he  said. 

*'Mr.  Callaway,  I  congratulate  you  upon  winning^ 
Mollie,  but  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  think  Bill,  after  many 
years  of  love  for  her,  and  a  purer  life,  perhaps,  than 
you  can  offer  her,  deserved  to  win  her." 

*'That  may  be  true,  but  the  matter  is  with  her,  you 
know." 

''That  is  true,  and  if  you  have  won  her  under  such 
circumstances,  you  should  feel  all  the  more  bound  to  be 
worthy  of  her.  She  is  a  fair,  sweet,  pure  girl.  See 
that  you  do  not  wreck  her  life,  see  that  you  never  pol- 
lute it.  I  congratulate  you  heartily  upon  your  determi- 
nation to  lead  a  better  life.  A  boy  is  never  beyond  the 
outstretched  arm  of" God  when  he  can  consider  his  con- 
dition and  desire  to  make  it  better.  Indeed,  when  this 
desire  is  a  resolution,  God's  arm  "is   near  to   save  him." 

He  thanked  me,  and  hesitated.  His  face  was  as 
pale  as  if  the  death  shadow  had  fallen  upon  it. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Callaway?  You  have  something 
to  say?" 

"I  was  about  to  make  a  confession;  but  I  will 
not." 

"If  it  would  relieve  you,  make  it  now.  I  am  not 
your  priest,  but  I  am  your  friend,  and  shall  be  glad  if 
I  can  help  you." 

"Not  now,  don't  ask  me,"  he  said.  "Some  other 
time  I  will  tell  you." 

"Settle  that  with  your  own  heart,"  I  answered; 
and  he  left. 

Callaway  had  shown  more  manhood  than  I  had  ever 
known  him  to  do,  and  I  felt  more  hopeful  of  him,  but 
his  manner  was  strange  and  confused  part  of  the  time. 
A  man  who  has  led  a  guilty  life  is  often  strango  in  his 
manner — nervous,  suspicious,  furtive. 

I  wrote  to  Mollie,  urging  her  to  let  her  mother 
know  more  about  her,  and  telling  her  what  I  had  heard 
of  her  intention  of  marrying  Callaway.  "Is  it  true,. 
Miss  Mollie?     I   ask  from  sincere  interest  in  you."     I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  191 

addressed  it  to  the  oflSce  from  which  Callaway's  letter 
came,  to  be  returned  in  five  days  if  not  called  for.  In 
about  a  week  it  came  back  to  me. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  I  asked  Callaway.  "I 
wrote  to  Mollie,  and  the  letter  is  returned." 

*'0f  course;  as  long  as  she  does  not  wish  her  where- 
abouts to  be  known,  she  would  not  mail  a  letter  from  the 
place  in  which  she  lived." 

Bill  and  I  kept  the  matter  from  Mol's  mother. 
Callaway  continued  in  school.  He  told  me  he  intended 
to  finish  echool  before  marrying,  so  there  was  no  need 
to  feel  immediate  uneasiness  in  reference  to  the  matter. 
Besides,  Callaway  had  expressed  his  determination  to 
live  a  better  life,  and  was  endeavoring  to  prove  the 
truth  of  the  determination,  and  I  thought  might  make  a 
worthy  husband.  Poor  Bill!  He  seemed  to  feel  no 
anger  with  Callaway  now,  only  a  deep  regret  for  his 
own  loss. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Bill  was  now  in  the  freshman  class  in  college.  A 
mind  that  has  had  no  training  until  its  owner  has  passed 
the  years  for  the  usual  mental  culture,  is  nearly  always 
slowly  developed,  and  that  is  w^hy  I  had  tried  so  hard  to 
get  the  older  crackers  to  send  their  children  to  school. 
The  rule  does  not  always  work,  however.  I  have  known 
some  grown  men  and  women  to  enter  school  for  the  first 
time  and  progress  rapidly.  This  is  especially  true  of 
the  mountain  classes.  Their  minds,  though  uncultured, 
are  as  fresh  and  vigorous  as  their  native  air,  and  some- 
times the  adult's  mind  expands,  after  some  effort,  like  a 
child's. 

Bill  had  done  well.  He  had  a  philosophical  mind, 
and  would  some  day,  I  thought,  be  known  as  a  reasoner. 
His  spoken  English  was  yet  incorrect.  It  was  necessar- 
ily so  from  lifelong  practice  and  association,  and  was 
not  a  fair  test  of  his  advancement ;  but  even  this  w^as 
improving.  In  writing,  his  English  teacher  told  me,  he 
was  very  correct. 

*'Mr.  Ramla,"  Bill  said  to  me,  "I  don't  want  my 
little  brothers  to  grow  up  talkin'  like  me.  It  seems  to 
me  I  never  will  get  no  English  education.  I  know  what's 
right,  but  I  can't  use  my  knowledge;  it's  just  because 
I've  been  raised  on  my  kind  of  talk.  Some  days  I  get 
fightin'  mad  with  the  English  teacher  'cause  he  stops  mo 
ever'  five  minutes  to  correct  my  speech  when  I'm  talkin' 
about  pr^'nciples  and  ain't  thinkin'  about  language.  I 
ought  to  'a'  been  learned  to  speak  correct  before  I  begun 
to  learn  principles.  Now,  I  want  my  little  brothers  to 
start  to  school  'fore  they're  set  in  their  speech,  so  that 
the  influence  of  the  college  may  balance  this  here  at 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  193 

liome.  And  I  want  *m  to  go  before  they  get  set  in 
thought.  It  took  me  more'n  a  year  to  give  up  my  ideas, 
and  sometimes  they  crop  out  yet.  What  you  think 
about  puttin'  Sam  in  school  now?" 

*'Your  theory  is  demonstrated  by  your  own  exper- 
ience; I  should  certainly  put  him  in  school  at  once." 

'*I'll  do  it  then.     Mam'll  do  what  I  say." 

So  Sam  started  to  school.  He  was  just  ten  years 
old,  and  proved  to  be  very  teachable.  Bill  was  proud  of 
him,  and  said : 

'*I  believe  before  long  Sam  will  catch  up  with  me." 
He  helped  him  at  home  with  his  lessons.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  see  him  teach  the  child  before  he  learned  his 
own  lessons. 

Katherine  took  a  great  interest  in  the  little  fellow, 
too,  and  so  did  Miss  Blackwell. 

I  was  afraid  he  would  be  spoiled  by  attention, 
especially  as  it  was  his  nature  to  be  boastful,  as  Bill  had 
been ;  but  the  interest  seemed  rather  to  do  him  good  in 
the  way  of  helping  him  to  overcome  his  boastful  nature. 
After  bragging  about  it  awhile,  he  said : 

"Reckin  I  must  need  more  help  'n  other  folks,  or 
folks  wouldn't  give  it  ter  me." 

The  president  said:  "You  centre  your  hopes  in 
Bill;  this  boy  is  my  hope.  Would  that  we  had  a  hun- 
dred like  him  here!" 

*'Let  us  sum  up  the  work  of  the  last  three  years,"  I 
flaid  to  him,  "and  see  what  we  have  done." 

"Very  well,"  he  replied;  and  he  made  it  a  matter 
of  figures.  "Five  years  ago  the  school  closed  with  seven 
pupils.  It  was  a  country  school  with  a  nominal  attend- 
ance. The  following  year  the  attendance  was  seventy- 
five. 

"Three  years  ago  at  commencement,  we  had  a  hun- 
dred. That  year  Bill  entered,  you  remember,  and  it 
was  then  that  we  classified  the  school  and  increased  the 
teaching  force.  The  year  after,  your  work  was  followed 
by  greater  success.     Other  crackers  entered,   and  the 


194  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CBACKERS 

number  of  students  increased  to  a  hundred  and  twenty* 
This  year  they  will  number  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five ;  and  there  is  another  marked  evidence  of  success — 
one  cracker  child,  the  first,  has  entered  and  is  doing 
well.  This  shows  that  the  sentiment  of  the  people  is 
changing." 

"Sam's  being  in  school  is  due  to  Bill's  influence,'* 
I  said. 

"That  is  true.  Five  years  ago  there  was  a  two-room 
school-house;  now  there  is  a  handsome  college  building, 
with  class-rooms  requisite  for  a  large  faculty.  Then 
there  were  no  appliances  for  the  best  work ;  now  there 
are  ample  appliances  for  the  most  progressive  teachers. 
While  you  have  been  going  out  in  the  mountains,  bring- 
ing in  the  crackers ,  I  have  been  preparing  a  place  for 
them.  Five  years  ago  the  manners  of  the  students  were 
barbarous;  now  they  are  the  manners  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen". Then  the  sentiment  of  the  people  was  opposed 
to  education,  and  the  labors  of  the  indolent  crackers 
were  directed  toward  destroying  the  work ;  now  they  do 
not  oppose  our  efforts,  and  are  beginning  to  help  ug. 
Five  years  ago  the  attendance  upon  church  services  was 
small;  now  it  is  comparatively  large.  The  progress  is 
very  marked,  and  if  we  do  nothing  more,  we  may  feel 
that  we  have  already  done  much." 

"That  is  true,  but  ther©  is  much  yet  to  be  done. 
Let  us  turn  the  horoscope  now  and  see  the  prospect.  A 
young  man  who  a  few  years  back,  laughed  in  a  cracker- 
ish  way  at  the  pleadings  of  one  who  begged  him  to  con- 
sider his  own  needs,  has  advanced,  and  is  now  himself 
pleading  with  others;  an  old  man  who  stopped  his  ears 
and  shook  his  head  at  the  same  pleadings,  stands  with 
bowed  head  in  listening  attitude ;  a  child  who,  near  the 
cracker  boy  and  the  old  man,  sat  catching  flies,  has  ad- 
vanced with  them,  and  has  books  under  his  arm.  Other 
children  are  watching  him,  and  stop  for  a  moment  their 
idle  amusement.  That  is  the  present  case.  The  future 
shows  a  vast  number  following  their  leader  to  a  building 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  19& 

on  the  hill,  the  home  of  children  and  of  youth.  The  old 
man  stands  off  and  smiles,  and  seems  happy  to  watch 
the  columns.  They  are  orderly  and  move  in  ranks,  but 
now  and  then  a  boy  or  girl  stops  to  pluck  a  flower.  I 
look  up  at  the  building;  a  large  procession  is  leaving  it. 
It  stops  and  salutes  the  advancing  column,  and  then 
marches  on,  and  men  and  women  take  their  stand  for 
life.  I  see  merchants,  farmers,  doctors,  lawyers,  cler- 
gymen, reformers,  scientists,  philosophers,  writers,  inven- 
tors, men  occupying  state  and  national  positions,  and 
fchey  all  look  back  at  the  building  on  the  hill  with  grat- 
itude. But  between  the  cast  of  the  present  and  the 
future  are  many  obstacles.  In  one  place  there  is  a  still, 
and  the  ground  corn  is  dripping  its  poison.  Near  this 
is  a  'grocery,'  into  which  men  walk  erect,  and  out  of 
which  they  come  staggering.  Not  far  off  a  man  is 
stamping  counterfeit  coin,  while  a  boy  counts  it  as  it 
falls,  and  places  it  in  a  bag.  When  the  bag  is  full,  the 
boy  takes  it  in  his  hand  and  goes.  In  front  of  these  are 
detectives,  prisoners,  and  condemned  men.  Further  on, 
there  ar©  churches.  This  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  the 
cast  of  the  horoscope.  It  is  plain  reason  that  is  stronger 
than  fortune.  The  stills,  groceries,  and  counterfeiters' 
dens  must  be  closed  before  we  can  hope  for  perfect  suc- 
cess. If  McCabe  could  be  convinced  that  it  is  his  duty 
to  help  break  up  this  horrible  traffic  that  he  once  en- 
gaged in,  what  a  power  he  would  be !" 

*'No,"  my  friend  said,  "we  could  not  induce  him 
to  help.  He  belonged,  and  probably  yet  belongs,  to.  the 
whitecaps,  and  many  of  them  are  moonshiners.  His  life 
might  be  the  cost,  and  his  help  might  not  be  effectual." 

"Do  you  know  that  he  is  a  whitecap?" 

*'I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Well,  we  must  work  alone  then  as  yet,"  said  I. 
*'The  surest  way  is  to  convince  these  men  of  the  evil 
they  are  doing  themselves  and  the  world;  but  that  is 
slow  success." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Little  Sam  had  become  the  pet  of  the  school.  He 
would  come  tugging  along  every  morning  with  his  books 
under  his  arm  and  his  bucket  in  his  hand.  He  wore 
long  pants  and  a  curious  little  straw  hat.  Everybody 
watched  for  his  coming. 

"Here  comes  my  boy,"  the  president  would  say,  to 
encourage  him;  and  Sam  would  lift  the  curious  little 
fltraw  hat  respectfully. 

He  had  not  been  to  school  for  several  days,  and 
I  asked  Bill  where  he  was. 

"Sam  ain't  very  well,"  he  replied;  "I'm  afraid  he's 
goin'  to  be  real  sick." 

The  president  and  I  went  to  see  him  that  afternoon. 

"Sam,  I  do  not  visit  well  people  much,"  my  friend 
said,  "but  I  hear  you  are  sick,  and  I  have  come  to  see 
you." 

"I's  sorry  not  ter  be  ter  school,  'Fessor;  I  wanted 
ter  come,  but  mam  wouldn't  lemme.  I  feel  sorter  bad. 
I've  been  keepin'  up  at  home,  though,"  and  he  showed 
him  the  lesson  he  had  learned  that  day.  "Hear  it 
^Fessor,  please,  an'  see  how  much  I  know;"  and  my 
friend  heard  him  recite. 

I  took  his  hand  in  mine.  His  flesh  was  hot  and  his 
pulse  quick  and  irregular.  It  was  not  the  season  for  fe- 
ver, but  I  felt  anxious. 

"Don't  come  to  school  to-morrow,  Sam,"  my  friend 
said.  "Wait  until  you  are  perfectly  well.  I  think  you 
can  keep  up  with  your  class  very  well,  too,  without 
studying  at  home.     Don't  tire  yourself." 

"That  child  is  about  to  have  typhoid  fever,"  I  said 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  he  replied. 
196 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  197 

The  next  day  Bill  said  he  was  no  better,  and  I  told 
him  to  consult  a  physician.  He  did  so.  The  day  fol- 
lowing he  said  to  me  : 

"Mr.  Ramla,  the  doctor  says  that  Sam's  got  the  fe- 
ver." 

"What  kind?"  I  asked. 

"I  dunno;  he  just  said  fever." 

Bill  stopped  school  to  nurse  his  little  brother,  and 
my  friend  and  I  often  went  to  see  the  child.  The 
whole  school  wanted  to  go,  but  were  forbidden. 

"He  will  recover,  Doctor?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  impossible  to  tell.  The  outcome  of  typhoid 
is  always  doubtful." 

The  first  week  he  was  bright,  and  there  seemed 
scarcely  any  danger,  but  the  fever  was  high.  He  want- 
ed my  friend  by  him  all  the  time,  and  every  day  when 
school  had  been  out  long  enough  for  my  friend  to 
get  there,  the  boy  called  for  him.  I  asked  him  if  [I 
would  not  do. 

"Naw ;  Bill's  your  boy,  Mr.  Ramla;  I'm 'Fessor's 
boy,  an'  I  don't  think  he  min's  comin'  ter  see  me.  Do 
you,  'Fessor?" 

Of  course  my  friend  said,  "No."  He  read  stories 
to  the  little  fellow,  and  tried  in  many  ways  to  amuse 
him. 

I  had  been  with  him  by  sick  beds  before,  but  I 
never  saw  him  manifest  so  much  anxiety.  He  loved  the 
child  for  his  personal  attractions,  and  because  he  was  a 
beacon  light. 

Bill  was  so  anxious  that  it  was  not  well  for  him 
to  be  near  the  boy.     He  showed  his  feelings  too  plainly. 

"Bill,  don't  look  so  sorrowful;  I'm  goin'  ter  git 
well." 

Then  the  tears  would  come  intjo  Bill's  eyes  and  he 
would  have  to  leave  the  room.  His  mother  showed  her 
feelings  plainly,  too,  and  I  nursed  the  child  a  good  deal 
to  save  both  them  and  him. 

Once  he  said  to  me;  "I  believe  Vm  your  boy,  too, 
as  well  as  Bill." 


198  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

The  second  week  he  was  no  better  and  yet  no  worse, 
except  that  he  was  growing  weaker.  He  was  delirious 
at  times,  and  the  doctor  told  me  if  there  should  be 
a  change  for  the  worse  the  following  week  he  would 
probably  never  he  conscious  again. 

*'You  think  he  will  not  recover,  then?"  I  said. 

**It  is  very  doubtful.  The  chances  are  against  him 
and  if  his  family  wish  to  talk  to  him  they  had  better  do 
it  now,  but  not  in  such  a  way  as  to  frighten  him." 

I  told  his  mother  and  Bill,  but  they  could  say  noth- 
ing without  exciting  the  child  and  making  him  delir- 
ious.    They  tried  several  times. 

Then  Bill  said:  "Mam,  we'll  murder  Sam  if  we 
don't  stop.  Let  somebody  else  say  what  we  want  to 
say.  I  have  never  been  a  Christian,  but  I  mean  to  be, 
and  I  want  Sam  to  die  right." 

I  told  my  friend  to  speak   to  the  child,  and  he  did: 

*'Sam,  don't  you  want  to  hear  a  story — a  sweet 
quiet  story?" 

"Yes,  'Fessor,  talk  to  me  'bout  it." 

"It  is  about  a  little  boy  like  you  who  lived  long,  long 
ago,  almost  two  thousand  years  ago.  He  was  born  in  a 
little  village  across  the  sea,  and  when  he  was  your  age 
he  lived  in  a  town  called  Nazareth.  This  little  boy  was 
a  good  child — the  best  boy  in  all  Nazareth.  He  never 
did  anything  wrong,  and  when  other  boys  were  bad,  peo- 
ple would  say,  'Be  like  Jesus;'  and  when  he  would 
play  with  other  boys,  and  they  would  be  angry  or  cross, 
Jesus  would  say,  'Boys,  don't  do  that;  that  is  wrong.' 
Then,  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man  he  started  out  in  the 
world  to  teach  people  to  be  good  ;  and  one  man  called  an- 
other and  told  him  what  a  good  man  had  come  from 
Nazareth  to  teach  people,  and  the  other  one  asked,  'Can 
anything  good  come  out  of  Nazareth.?'  The  one  who 
had  spoken  first  said,  'Come  and  see.'  To  see  him  was 
all  that  was  necessary  to  know  that  he  was  good.  He 
helped  people  all  he  could;  he  healed  the  sick,  and  made 
blind  people  see,  and  deaf  people  hear,  and  he  was  good 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  199 

to  everybody.  He  would  take  little  boys  on  his  lap  and 
tell  them  what  they  should  know,  and  they  were  so  glad 
there  was  such  a  man.  So  for  three  years  he  taught  the 
people  daily." 

"Better'n  you,  'Fessor?"  the  child  asked. 

"Better  than  any  other  man ;  and  he  told  the  people 
that  he  had  come  down  from  heaven  to  tell  them  how  to 
live  and  how  to  die.and  that  everybody  who  believed  what 
he  said,  and  lived  as  he  taught  them,  would  be  saved  ; 
and  that  after  death  he  was  going  to  heaven,  and  would 
take  all  others  there  if  they  would  trust  him  and  do 
right.  He  told  them  what  a  beautiful  place  heaven  is, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  get  it  ready  for  them.  What 
is  the  prettiest  place  you  ever  saw,  Sam?" 

*'The  college." 

*'Well,  Jesus  has  gone  to  a  prettier  place,  more 
beautiful  than  any  you  can  think  of,  and  all  grown  peo- 
ple, and  all  little  boys  and  girls  who  will  may  go  with 
him  when  they  leave  this  world.  There  is  room  for 
every  one.     Do  you  believe  this  story,  Sam?" 

"Yes,  'Fessor,  because  you  tell  it." 

*'Do  you  believe  what  Jesus  said  because  he  told  it, 
and  wants  you  to  believe  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  it  will  be  all  right.  Now,  we'll' pray  to 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  and  tell  him  how  you  feel,  and  ask 
him  to  help  you." 

And  he  made  a  simple  prayer,  that  any  child  could 
have  understood,  to  the  great  Life  that  he  had  por- 
trayed, for  the  little  life  that  seemed  so  near  its  close. 

Sam  dropped  asleep ,  and  all  the  room  was  calm  and 
peaceful.  When  he  awoke,  he  was  conscious,  and 
seemed  to  be  better;  but  there  was  no  change,  the 
doctor  said. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week,  however,  a  change 
came,  and  during  the  whole  of  the  third  week  Sam  was 
unconscious.  The  night  of  the  twentieth  day  we 
watched    him    closely.     Sometimes   the  respiration  was 


200  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

very  quick,  then  very  slow,  as  if  tired  of  the  effort. 
There  was  no  hope  of  his  recovery ;  everyone  realized 
that. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  twenty-first 
day  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  shone  with  a  new 
light. 

"Mam,  Bill,  'Fessor,  Mr.  Ramla,"  he  said,  dis- 
tinctly, "I'm  goin'  ter  be  with  the  good  little  boy  of 
Naz'reth — an'  I'm  goin'  ter  be  good,  too,  in  that  beau- 
tiful place — what's  prettier  'n  the  college — an'  the  little 
boy  '11  teach  me " 

He  closed  his  eyes,  smiled  sweetly,  and  when  the 
morning  dawned  he  had  gone  to  be  with  the  Child.  Who 
knows  but  that  the  Nazarene  Boy  stood  by  and  hushed 
the  tired  spirit  into  slumber?  Certainly  it  seemed  so  ; 
for  there  was  none  of  the  horror  of  death,  and  w^hen  we 
had  dressed  him  in  his  strange  little  costume,  he  never 
seemed  more  natural  or  wore  a  sweeter  expression.  It 
seemed  almost  wrong  to  grieve,  almost  like  grieving  at 
another's  joy. 

My  friend  said  simply:  "Of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven." 

The  people  began  to  flock  in,  and  I  feared  it  would 
be  like  that  other  occasion  when  death  had  entered  this 
home. 

Bill  said:  "I  don't  want  folks  here  to-night,  'cept 
us  and  you  and  pr'fessor.  It  would  be  like  disturbing 
his  rest."  So  he  said  to  the  people  present:  "We're 
mighty  glad  you  come,  but  we  want  ter  be  with  Sam  by 
ourselves  this  last  night.  I  hope  you  won't  b'^  mad. 
It's  just  our  way  of  lookin'  at  the  matter." 

Some  left  angry,  saying  the  Collinses  had  no  grati- 
tude, especially  Bill.  Others  said,  "Well,  Bill's  kinder 
cur'us;"  others  said  he  was  right. 

The  night  passed  quietly.  There  was  no  loud  grief, 
but  a  quiet  watch,  as  if  we  desired  the  presence  of  little 
Sam.  We  read  of  the  blessing  to  little  children,  and 
had  prayer,  such  as  my  friend  had  offered  before,  full  of 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEES  201 

hope,  trust,  submission,  and  of  gratitude  for  the  good- 
ness of  Him  who  promised  to  all  such  a  peaceful  en- 
trance into  the  Beyond,  and  reunion  and  fuller  life. 
And  then  we  talked  of  the  boy  and  his  new  existence. 

The  next  day  the  friends  of  the  family  came  again, 
and  all  the  students  of  the  college  were  there.  In  the 
afternoon  we  laid  him  to  rest.  The  school  asked  the 
privilege  of  burying  him.  Boys  of  his  size  were  pall- 
bearers, and  my  friend  conducted  the  funeral  services 
with  beautiful  mention  of  the  little  life.  He  was  buried 
by  his  father,  and  the  grave  was  C(»vered  with  arbutus 
blossoms. 

Bill  was  very  sad  afterwards  for  a  long  time.  I  do 
not  think  he  has  ever  gotten  entirely  over  little  Sam's 
death;  but,  as  he  said,  it  was  "a  sin  to  grieve;  and  so 
selfish,  too,  Mr.  Ramla,  since  it's  my  loss,  and  not  his." 

My  friend  said  he  had  not  been  so  affected  for  years, 
nor  felt  so  keenly  the  sense  of  loss. 

"The  boy's  place  must  be  filled  in  the  school,  if 
possible,"  he  said;  and  I  went  at  once  to  see  Mr.  Sims. 

"Mr. Sims  will  you  not  send  your  boy  to  school  now? 
You  have  seen  how  much  beloved  little  Sam  Collins  was. 
He  was  the  pet  and  hope  of  the  entire  school." 

*'I  ain't  er  goin'  ter  send  him  ef  he's  goin'  ter  git 
fever  an'  die.  The  school  was  pow'rful  'tentive,  an* 
'twas  all  mighty  nice,  but  I  don't  want  my  chap  ter  die 
ter  git  'tention." 

"The  attention  shown  at  the  burial,  Mr.  Sims,  was 
only  a  mark  of  affection.  The  whole  school  loved  Sam 
in  life." 

"Mebbe  so,  but  he  got  fever  over  thar  at  War- 
lesky." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  I  said;  and  I  talked  to  him  a 
long  time  about  his  child. 

He  promised  to  send  him  at  once,  and  did. 

Bill  could  scarcely  bear  the  child's  presence  in  the 
school  at  first,  but  he  got  over  the  feeling  after  a  while, 
and  was  very  kind  to  the  boy. 


202  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

The  students  tried  to  pet  little  Bob  Sims,  but  he 
was  never  beloved  as  Sam  Collins  had  been.  The  school 
felt  the  impress  of  the  sad  death  for  months.  Just  at 
the  end  of  the  term,  however,  a  circumstance  of  very 
different  character  stirred  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

One  morning  when  the  presiding  elder  of  the  dis- 
trict was  at  Walesca,  my  friend  sent  for  me.  I  went 
immediately,  and  found  that  a  poor  boy  who  was  edu- 
cating himself  had  lost  fifty  dollars.  He  said  that  it 
had  been  stolen  out  of  his  trunk,  and  accused  Lewis  of 
the  theft.  The  elder  had  preached  the  night  before, 
and  the  young  man  thought  the  money  had  been  taken 
while  he  was  at  church.  He  gave  the  following  ac- 
count: 

"About  a  week  ago  Lewis  came  to  my  room  and  saw 
me  go  in  my  trunk  and  take  five  dollars  from  my  purse. 
'You  seem  to  have  a  lot  of  money,'  he  said.  'No,'  I  as- 
sured him,  'just  a  little,  but  it's  all  I  have,  and  will 
have  to  take  me  through  next  year.'  'Why  can't  you 
make  more  this  summer?'  he  asked.  I  told  him  'Be- 
cause I  must  help  father  on  the  place  this  summer  and 
he  can't  aflPord  to  pay  me  for  it;  it  isn't  right  that  he 
should  either.  You  see,  he  gives  me  one  summer  and  I 
make  enough  to  go  to  school  two  years,  and  then  I  stay 
at  home  and  help  him  the  next  year.'  'Aren't  you 
twenty-one  years  old?  You  are  not  obliged  to  work  for 
your  father  at  all,'  he  said.  'Lewis,  aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself?'  I  asked;  and  he  replied,  'No;  every  fel- 
low for  himself  in  this  world.  Simpson,  let  me  have 
that  money ,  I  need  money  badly  now,  and  you  will  not 
want  that  before  fall.'  'No,'  I  answered.  'Why  don't 
you  go  to  work  and  make  money  for  yourself.'  'I  am 
going  to,  but  I  need  fifty  dollars  before  I  can  do  a 
thing;  my  brother  is  in  New  York,  and  has  written  me 
if  I  go  there  he  will  get  me  a  situation.  I  can't  afford 
to  go  to  school  any  longer,  and  I  have  no  money  to  go  to 

203 


204  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

New  York  on ;  if  you  will  lend  me  fifty  dollars  I  will 
pay  it  back  long  before  fall ;  come,  Simpson,  do  a  fellow 
a  kindness.'  'I'd  like  to  help  you,  Lewis,  but  I  do  not 
know  what  might  happen  before  fall ;  borrow  from 
some  one  who  is  better  able  to  lend.'  That  afternoon 
he  and  Callaw^ay  both  came  and  begged  me  for  the 
money.  Callaway  said  Lewis  was  obliged  to  have  it,  but 
I  told  them  no.  Lewis  had  a  fine  overcoat  that  some 
one  had  given  him,  and  he  wanted  to  pawn  that.  I  re- 
fused under  any  circumstances  to  let  him  have  the 
money,  and  they  both  left  angry.  Lewis  said,  'You 
will  suffer  for  it  yet,  Simpson ;  people  who  are  too  mean 
to  help  their  friends  always  sufi'er  for  their  meanness.^ 
Last  night  I  went  to  church  with  a  friend,  but  not  be- 
fore I  had  locked  the  trunk  and  my  room.  On  the  way 
we  met  Lewis.  'Aren't  you  going  to  church?'  I  asked. 
'No,  I'm  sick,  and  Professor  has  excused  me.'  'You 
had  better  go  back  and  get  your  money,'  my  friend 
said,  and  I  would  have  gone,  but  the  second  church  bell 
was  then  ringing  and  I  had  no  time.  I  was  so  im- 
pressed with  the  sermon  I  forgot  to  look  for  the  money 
when  I  got  home,  but  it  turned  cool  in  the  night,  and  I 
felt  the  air  from  my  window.  I  remembered  putting 
the  window  down  before  I  went  to  church,  and  I  did 
not  remember  raising  it  after  coming  home.  I  exam- 
ined the  window  and  found  a  pane  of  glass  broken.  I 
thought  of  the  money,  then,  and  looked  in  my  trunk. 
The  lock  was  broken  and  the  money  gone.  Some  one 
had  been  in  the  room,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  Lewis.  I 
want  to  get  a  warrant  for  him  immediately,  but  Profes- 
sor objects  to  it.  He  says  I  ought  not  to  make  a  public 
matter  of  it,  but  that  he  will  go  with  me  and  talk  to 
Lewis,  and  demand  the  money.  What  do  you  think  is 
best?  When  a  man  is  as  mean  as  that  I  think  he  ought 
to  suffer  for  it." 

"Suppose  you  keep  a  sharp  watch  over  Lewis  and 
see  that  he  does  not  leave  town,  Mr.  Simpson,  until  I 
can  talk  to  the  president  and  we  decide  what  is  best."^ 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  205 

Simpson  left,  and  my  friend  and  I  talked  the  matter 
over.     Said  he: 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  subject  a  young  man  like 
Lewis  to  the  l«w.  He  may  be  saved  by  mild  means,  but 
if  tried  and  made  to  serve  a  term  in  the  penitentiary 
he  will  become  thoroughly  hardened.  There  is  little 
hope  for  a  man  imprisoned  for  crime.  It  is  a  fearful 
thing  for  a  young  man  just  starting  in  life  to  be  pun- 
ished so  severely.  It  does  not  give  him  a  good  impres- 
sion of  the  religion  that  should  be  patient  and  long-suflPer- 
ing ;  and  say  what  you  will  about  the  world,  it  always 
looks  down  on  a  man  who  has  worn  the  stripes." 

"That  is  true,"  I  said,  'but  what  will  you  do  with 
the  law?  It  is  of  no  good  if  not  enforced,  and  then  you 
must  remember  that,  in  protecting  one,  you  are  causing 
many  to  suffer.  Lewis  might  be  saved,  but  in  the 
meantime  many  others  will  suffer  grievously.  Law  is 
ior  the  protection  of  the  whole.  I  think  you  have 
borne  long  enough  with  Lewis.  In  any  case  he  cannot 
be  allowed  to  remain  in  the  school  any  longer." 

"Your  interpretation  of  the  law  is  not  entirely 
right.  Lewis  might  steal  a  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
but  that  is  nothing  to  the  loss  of  a  soul  and  a  useful 
life,  such  as  his  might  become.  However,  my  theory 
may  be  wrong ;  it  is  not  popular,  at  least.  Go  and  tell 
Simpson  to  have  a  warrant  issued;  but  it  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  be  quite  Christ-like." 

"You  are  the  one  to  decide  the  matter;  the  respon- 
sibility is  with  you.  You  must  tell  Simpson  yourself," 
I  said. 

"Ah  !  that  is  what  is  the  matter;  the  responsibility 
is  with  me,  and  all  under  my  influence  will  be  affected 
by  my  action." 

We  went  out  together ;  the  warrant  was  issued,  and 
Lewis  arrested.  Fifty  dollars  was  found  on  his  person, 
and  he  acknowledged  the  theft.  He  had  intended  to 
leave  for  New  York  on  the  early  morning  train,  and 
was  preparing  to   go  when  he   saw  Simpson  watching 


206  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

him,  and  affected  unconcern.  He  pleaded  for  mercy^ 
said  he  had  committed  the  theft  in  his  extremity,  and 
was  willing  to  refund  the  money  and  acknowledge  his 
guilt  if  Simpson  would  not  let  the  law  take  its  course. 
But  the  matter  had  passed  out  of  Simpson's  hands. 

'^Professor,  I  know  you  have  a  right  to  feel  that 
some  of  your  suspicions  of  me  are  proving  just,  but  I 
appeal  to  your  goodness  that  has  caused  you  to  bear 
with  me  so  long  to  help  me  now.  Go  on  my  bond.  I 
cannot  bear  to  be  put  in  jail." 

He  cried  like  a  child,  but  my  friend  could  not  go 
on  his  bond.  All  that  he  had  possessed  he  had  given  to 
the  school.  So  Lewis  was  taken  to  Canton  and  impris- 
oned. 

The  next  day  my  friend  asked  me  to  go  to  the  open- 
ing exercises  of  the  school.  He  lectured  for  some  time 
upon  the  occurrence  of  the  day  before,  and  closed  by 
saying  that,  according  to  the  law  of  the  college,  it 
had  become  necessary  for  the  faculty  to  expel  Lewis.  I 
never  knew  a  man  with  as  tender  a  heart  and  as  strong 
a  will  as  my  friend  had.  His  sympathies  were  bleeding 
in  Lewis'  behalf,  but  for  the  influence  over  the  school  he 
took  this  action.  It  was  a  very  solemn  occasion.  The 
school  was  asked  to  stand,  and  Lewis  was  openly  ex- 
pelled. 

Callaway  sat  very  near  me.  When  he  arose  he 
trembled  fearfully,  and  leaned  against  his  desk  for  sup- 
port ;  his  face  was  as  ashes,  his  lips  even  were  colorless ; 
he  looked  like  a  man  who  was  hearing  his  own  sentence. 
Sulely,  I  thought,  he  loved  Lewis  much,  or  he  was  his  ac- 
complice. 

We  wrote  to  Lewis'  family  of  his  trouble,  but  it  was 
some  days  before  they  could  go  to  Canton  and  arrange 
for  his  bail. 

In  the  interval,  the  detective  whom  we  had  consult- 
ed said  to  me: 

**I  have  obtained  a  search  warrant  for  Lewis'  room; 
he  will  doubtless  skip  the  country  when  he  gets  bail, and 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  207 

I  have  suspected  him  for  some  time  of  complicity  in  this 
counterfeiting  business ;  I  can  now  find  out  if  he  is- 
guilty." 

We  went  through  Lewis'  trunk  and  found  a  tin  box 
locked.  We  opened  it,  and  found  letters  from  a  counter" 
feiter  in  New  York.  They  bore  date  for  two  years,  and 
a  few  coins  of  different  values  were  enclosed.  The 
counterfeiter  said  that  he  sent  sample  money  that  it 
might  be  tried  to  see  if  it  would  pass  without  trouble. 
He  promised  to  furnish  his  accomplice  large  sums  should 
he  be  successful.  Lewis  had  apparently  tried  for  two 
years  with  indifferent  success,  and  had  taken  the  money 
from  Simpson  for  the  purpose  of  going  north,  and  would 
probably  go  somewhere  else  afterwards  to  pass  counter- 
feit money.  "I  will  expect  you  or  your  companion  on 
the  15th  of  May,"  the  last  letter,  dated  May  13th,  ran, 
"and  we  will  fix  up  our  affair."  The  letters  were  not 
addressed  to  Lewis,  but  to  an  old  man,  Jake  Nicely,  a 
shrewd  cracker,  an  uncle  of  the  moonshiner.  There 
were  also  letters  from  Lewis'  brother,  begging  him  to 
come  to  New  York,  and  he  would  get  him  a  situation. 
These  had  no  connection  with  the  counterfeit  business. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  in  a  chamois  ekin,  I  found 
my  grandfather's  watch. 

My  friend  went  to  see  Lewis  in  jail,  and  told  me  that 
he  seemed  perfectly  wild  at  not  being  bailed  out.  I  told 
my  friend  of  the  discovery  that  had  been  made  while  he 
was  in  Canton.  No  wonder  Lewis  was  anxious  to  get  bail. 
When  his  friends  came  to  offer  bond  for  him,  however, 
the  detective  and  sheriff  went  to  the  court- room  and  re- 
arrested Lewis  on  the  graver  charges  of  burglary  and 
counterfeiting. 

His  friends  could  not  offer  sufficient  bond  this  time, 
and  he  was  carried  back  to  jail.  Jake  Nicely  was  also 
arrested ;  many  suspected  Callaway,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  find  any  ground  for  his    arrest. 

The  trials  for  counterfeiting  came  off  in  July.  The 
evidence  went  to  show  that  Nicely  had  Lewis  circulate 


208  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

the  money,  and  was  going  to  send  him  to  New  York. 
Lewis,  however,  would  not  be  duped  by  having  the  letters 
addressed  to  him.  He  would  probably  have  been  sent  to 
prison  for  a  term  of  years  but  for  a  rich  uncle  who 
paid  Nicely  to  take  the  blame.  The  latter  had  nothing 
to  lose  in  character,  and  would  certainly  be  condemned, 
so  he  took  the  money.  Of  course,  this  was  not  known  to 
the  court.  Lewis  gave  evidence  in  his  own  behalf  that 
Nicely  had  brought  the  tin  box  locked,  saying  that  he 
had  no  place  to  keep  some  valuable  papers,  and  asked 
Lewis  to  take  care  of  them  for  him.  Nicely  testified 
that  this  was  true,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  Lewis  to 
read  the  papers,  and  kept  them  locked  from  him.  The 
jury  could  not  reject  this  testimony,  and  they  found 
Nicely  guilty,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  ten  years' 
imprisonment,  while  Lewis  was  acquitted. 

The  case  of  burglary  was  not  tried  during  that  term 
and  *Lewi8  was  bailed.  He  skipped  the  country  imme- 
diately, and  his  bondsman  paid  the  bail. 

Not  long  after  the  trial  Callaway  was  in  my  room, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  from  Lewis. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "once,"  but  as  his  friend  had  fallen 
into  such  shame  he  thought  it  wiser  not  to  have  anything 
further  to  do  with  him,  and  he  had  not  answered  his  let- 
ter. 

I  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  he  was.  He  did  not, he 
replied.    I  showed  him  the  watch. 

"Did you  ever  see  Lewis  with  this?"  I  asked. 

He  looked  somewhat  taken  back,  but  said  he  had 
never  seen  it  before.     I  showed  him  the  name. 

"It  is  easily  recognizable,  you  see;  it  was  taken 
from  a  trunk  in  my  room  when  the  president  was  at  my 
house  sick  some  time  in  January  of  last  year." 

"Lewis  was  in  the  town  in  which  you  live  when  Pro- 
fessor was  sick.  I  remember  his  telling  me  he  wanted 
to  go  and  see  him." 

"You  were  at  home  then,  Mr.  Callaway?"  I  asked. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  209 

"No  sir,  I  was  here.  You  remember  I  came  before 
Lewis  did  that  year." 

"Yes,  only  a  day  or  two,  though,  I  think;  my  im- 
pression is  that  you  were  not  here  then." 

He  aiiswered  confusedly ;  "Well,  maybe  I  was  at 
home,"  and  the  conversation  dropped. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Bill  was  now  in  the  sophomore  class,  and  among  the 
many  exercises  required  by  the  teacher  of  English  was 
writing  poetry.  I  asked  the  teacher  if  this  was  not  a 
waste  of  time.  He  said  no,  it  cultivated  a  pure  senti- 
ment, and  it  was  one  of  the  many  duties  of  a  teacher  to 
do  that.  One  day  Bill  brought  me  one  of  his  productions. 

''There's  not  much  in  it,  but  it's  how  I  feel,"  he 
said. 

I  laughed  and  told  him  he  might  regret  his  syllogism 
if  he  studied  logic. 

After  reading  it  I  asked  : 

"Where  did  you  get  this  sentiment.  Bill?  You 
must  have  been  reading  Byron.  Women  are  generally 
thought  to  be  more  constant  than  men,  and  this  poem  is 
the  feeling  of  an  old,  experienced  man,  whose  life  has 
become  saddened  and  somewhat  embittered  because  some 
woman  has  rejected  him." 

"Well,  I'm  not  old,  but  I  sometimes  feels  so,  and 
what  you  say  has  been  my  experience.  The  sweetest, 
purest  girl  in  the  world  has  rejected  me,  and  nothing 
seems  the  same." 

"But  you  do  not  know  that  Molis  inconstant,"  I 
said. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  She  would  have  let  me  hear  before 
now  if  she  felt  the  same." 

Katherine  said  to  me  one  day:  "Father,  the  Pro- 
fessor of  English  says  that  Bill  is  the  best  writer  in  the 
sophomore  class." 

"He  brought  me  some  poetry  to  read  the  other  day," 
I  said,  "and  it  expressed  deep  sentiment,  and  was  well 
written." 

210 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS  211 

''Oh !  he  is  developing  wonderful  talent  as  an  essay 
writer.  His  attempts  at  poetry  are  spasmodic,  the  pro- 
fessor says,  and  not  nearly  so  good  as  his  prose.  He  has 
a  philosophical  mind.  And  have  you  not  noticed  how 
improved  his  expression  in  conversation  is.?  He  does  not 
butcher    English  half  so  much   as    he    used  to." 

I  had  noticed  the  change  in  Bill,  but  I  was  not  as 
surprised  as  she.  I  had  looked  anxiously  for  the  devel- 
opment for  four  years,  always  believing  that  it  would 
come. 

My  friend  said  to  me:  "I  confess  I  have  never  be- 
lieved in  Bill  as  you  have,  but  now  I  must  acknowledge 
his  capacity.     The  boy  has  a  wonderful  brain." 

Before  the  close  of  each  term,  it  had  been  the  cus- 
tom to  have  a  series  of  revival  meetings,  and  many  of 
the  students  were  converted  each  time.  This  year  the 
meetings  were  conducted  by  my  friend  and  a  noted  evan- 
gelist. Everybody  seemed  to  help  in  feeling,  if  not 
openly.  Among  those  who  were  converted  was  Bill ;  1 
had  felt  anxious  about  his  Christian  life,  though  I 
thought  he  was  a  boy  of  high  appreciation  of  duty. 

"I've  been  thinkin'  about  it  ever  since  Sam  died," 
he  said,  "and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  make  up  my  mind 
now.     What  is  conversion,  Mr.  Ramla?" 

"It  is  a  conviction  of  wrong-doing,  and  a  strong  de- 
termination to  live  right." 

"That's  what  I  think.     Now,  what  is  living  right?" 

"Just  as  Christ  lived,  as  far  as  you  can — living  up 
to  your  higher  nature." 

"That  is  what   I    think    too,"  he    said;    "nothing 


One  Sunday  afternoon,  shortly  after  this,  I  met 
McCabe  on  the  street;  and  said:  "Mr.  McCabe,  will  you 
not  come  to  church  to-night?" 

"I  though  I'd  come,"  he  replied. 

I  watched  for  him,  and  early  the  great,  tall  form 
came  boldly  in.  My  friend  preached  one  of  his  most 
impressive  sermons,  tender  and  loving,  with   not  a  word 


212  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

of  condemnation.  Surely  if  the  gospel  means  anything, 
it  means  glad  tidings. 

McCabe  arose  and  came  to  the  front. 

*'I  have  wanted  fur  er  long  time  ter  hear  how 
Christ  preached.  The  las'  time  I  wus  in  church  they 
told  me  that  the  likes  o'  me  wus  condemned  forever,  but 
somehow  I  felt  that  Jesus  would  'a'  preached  different. 
I've  been  hunted  down  all  my  life.  I'm  glad  thar's  er 
religion  that  don't  want  ter  keep  people  down  all  the 
time,  an'  don't  believe  thar's  nothing  good  in  'm.  I've 
heen  er  still-keeper,  but  ef  there's  enny  chance  far  me 
now,  I  want  ter  live  right.  If  thar's  enny  moonshiners 
here,  I  want  ter  tell  'm  moonshinin's  er  bad  business ; 
more'n  that,  I've  made  up  my  mind  ter  do  ever'thin' 
ag'in  stills.  They're  er  curse  ter  enny  country,  govern- 
ment or  blind  wuns.  I  can't  break  up  the  government 
ivuns,  but  I  kin  wuk  on  the  others.  Now,  if  thar's  enny 
man  I  ain't  done  jes'  right  by,  I  want  him  ter  know  I'm 
sorry,  an'  I'm  goin'  ter  do  better.  Now  if  thar's  enny 
way  fur  er  man  like  me  what's  been  so  mean  but  wants 
ter  be  good,  ter  be  saved,  help  me  ter  that  way.  Pro- 
fessor." 

My  friend  here  gave  out  the  words,  "Just  as  I  am, 
I  come,"  and  the  congregation  sang  that  beautiful 
hymn.  The  great  work  had  been  done.  Three  years 
ago  an  outlaw,  now  a  Christian.  I  had  not  felt  so  happy 
in  years  as  when  I  thought  then  of  Bill  and  McCabe, 
and  when  they  both  told  me  I  had  been  a  help  to  them  I 
heard  the  herald  of  eternity  whisper  of  its  joys. 

Katherine  graduated  that  year,  and  I  felt  very  proud 
of  her.  Truly,  if  "sorrows  come  not  single  spies," 
neither  do  joys.  I  thought  that  at  first  she  would 
remain  at  home  after  this,  but  we  all  decided  it  would 
be  better  for  her  to  go  back,  as  she  would  be  able  to  do 
more  than  ever  for  the  people. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

When  we  returned  in  the  fall,  Bill  told  me  that  he 
was  happier  than  he  had  been  Bince  Mol  left. 

"I  was  going  home  about  dark  the  other  day,  and 
I  met  a  queer-lookin'  man  I  never  saw  before,  sorter  like 
McCabe,  and  he  said  :  'Young  man, it's  a  pity  you  let  an- 
other man  cheat  you  out  of  so  much  happiness,especialiy 
when  the  man's  a  rascal;'  and  I  asked  him  what  he 
meant,  and  he  said,  'Think  what  I  mean.'  I  suppose  he 
referred  to  Callaway's  winning  Mol,  and  I  couldn't  help 
that.  The  next  day  I  received  a  letter  from  her, 
but  I  couldn't  tell  a  thing  about  the  postmark  or  where 
to  send  one  to  her.  The  letter  contained  hopeful  news. 
'I  told  you  when  I  left  to  trust  me ;  you  have  not  done 
that.  Women  are  fai  thful,  but  men  never  are,  and  you 
do  not  trust  me  because  you  are  proving  false.'  It  was 
mighty  bad  on  me,  but  I  was  glad  to  know  that  she  was 
true,  and  I  thought  she'd  find  out  I  was  some  day.  I 
showed  it  to  Callaway,  and  he  said,  either  Mol  didn't 
write  it,  or  she  was  false  to  him.  How  do  you  think  I 
can  get  a  letter  to  her?  You  reckon  that  man  that  met 
me  knows  anything  about  it?" 

I  thought  it  very  likely  that  he  did,  and  I  told  Bill 
that  I  would  be  on  the  lookout  for  the  man,  and  find  out 
from  him  what  he  knew  of  Mol. 

It  was  months,  however,  before  I  saw  him.  In  De- 
cember, though,  I  came  across  him,  and  asked  him  ta 
talk  to  me  a  few  moments. 

"You  advise  me  not  to  seek  to  discover  your  iden- 
tity, and  I  have  taken  no  pains  to  learn  it.  Without 
doubt,  if  I  had  made  any  great  effort,  I  could  have 
learned,  and  might   have   given  you   trouble,  for  a  man 

213 


«14  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

does  not  usually  conceal  his  identity  unless  he  is  in 
danger.'* 

''Don't  speak  without  reason,"  he  said.  "Men  con- 
ceal their  identity  sometimes  for  the  greater  good  they 
may  do  unknown  than  known,  and  for  various  other  rea- 
sons." 

"Well,  I  have  not  made  any  effort  to  learn  yours, 
and  in  consideration  of  my  not  having  disturbed  you  in 
your  work,  I  want  to  ask  a  kindness  of  you." 

**I  will  be  glad  to  do  you  a  kindness,  but  w^hen  you 
speak  of  considerations,  they  are  not  on  one  side.  I  have 
not  interfered  in  your  work." 

"Pardon  my  ingratitude,"  I  said  somewhat  stiffly. 
"We  will  pass  over  considerations,  and  I  will  heg  of  you  a 
kindness.  You  seem  to  know  the  private  affairs  of  every- 
one in  this  country;  it  is  a  questionable  business  dig- 
ging into  personal  matters,  but  since  you  engage  in  it, 
turn  it  to  good." 

He  was  livid.  How  had  I  angered  him  so?  But, 
to  tell  the  truth,  though  I  admired  the  man,  I  was  dis- 
gusted with  him  for  making  insight  into  private  matters 
his  occupation.     He  replied  hotly: 

"Tour  comments  are  unworthy  of  you,  but  I  sup- 
pose, when  a  man  places  himself  in  a  doubtful  position 
he  must  answer  for  it." 

He  rose,  showed  a  belt  of  pistols,  and  held  one  in 
my  face  before  I  could  rise. 

"Oh  !  I  have  no  desire  to  engage  in  a  pistol  fight, " 
I  said. 

"Few  men  have  with  me;  you  are  not  eccentric  in 
that." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  comment  too  severely  upon  your 
work.     Your  motives  may  be  good." 

He  replaced  the  pistol  in  his  belt. 

"I  would  not  shoot  a  man  who  could  not  defend 
himself.  Tell  me  what  kindness  you  would  ask,  and  I 
will  consider  granting  it." 

"You  know  where  MoUie  Smith  is.     It  would  be  a 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  215 

great  kindness  to  her  mother  and  friends  if  you  would 
say." 

"It  would  be  a  great  kindness  to  Miss  Smith  for  me 
not  to  say,  conceding  that  I  know." 

"So  she  would  doubtless  consider  it,  but  it  is  ques- 
tionable if  it  would  be  so.  Her  mother  is  growing  old 
and  feeble.  Better  than  doctors  and  medicine  would  be 
a  knowledge  of  where  Mollie  is,  and  better  than  renewed 
youth  it  would  be  to  see  her  once  again." 

"Miss  Smith  has  surely  thought  of  these  things, 
and  against  them  has  weighed  the  secret  of  her  absence 
and  whatever  of  good  is  involved  in  it.  I  have  taken 
no  trouble  to  find  out  anything  about  her.  She  is  a 
good  girl,  though,  and  I  did  her  a  kindness  once.  In 
memory  of  it  she  told  me  where  she  was  going,  and  to 
let  her  know  of  any  change  here  for  good  or  ill.  It  is 
strange  that  a  boy  of  Bill's  sense  in  other  things  should 
allow  himself  to  believe  anything  that  a  man  like  Calla- 
way says." 

"Callaway  seems  abetter  man  in  every  respect,  and 
Bill  has  come  to  believe  him.  I,  too,  have  thought  his 
story  of  Mol  plausible." 

"Then  you  are  as  foolish  as  Bill.  Callaway  is  one 
of  the  deceptive  kind  that  knows  how  to  impose  upon 
credulous  people.  Out  of  his  doubts  of  Mol's  constancy, 
Bill  will  acquire  a  contempt  for  her,  and  will  consider 
her  ignorance  and  other  deficiencies,  which  he  has  not 
yet  realized,  and  prove  untrue  himself.  Callaway  is 
undermining  his  affection,  and  Bill  has  not  been  able  to 
Bee  it." 

"I  confess  I  have  never  thought  of  it." 

"Then  look  into  these  things,  Callaway  would  like 
to  say  to  Mol,  'You  see  what  sort  of  man  Bill  Collins  is; 
when  he  was  ignorant,  you  were  the  wife  he  sought ; 
now  that  he  is  educated,  he  aspires  higher;  but  I,  with 
family  and  social  prestige,  and  education  superior,  am 
yet  true.'  And  when  she  believes  him,  he  will  say; 
*You  ought  to  have  known  that  I  could  never  marry 


216  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

you ;  I  only  wanted  to  show  Bill  that  I  could  win  you 
from  him.'  The  only  sting  that  Callaway  has  ever  had 
has  been  that  a  cracker  could  keep  the  affections  of  a 
girl  he  made  an  effort  to  win." 

"I  thought  I  was  a  judge  of  character,"  I  said,  "but 
I,  cannot  look  into'  men's  hearts  and  discover  their 
motives  in  this  way." 

*'I  am  accustomed  to  it  from  hard  dealings  with 
them,"  he  replied. 

*'Now,"  I  said,* 'if  you  really  think  this  is  true,  and 
if  you  know  where  Mol  is,  and  she  has  asked  you  to 
look  after  her  interests,  you  will  surely  tell  her." 

"I  shall  tell  as  much  as  seems  to  me  best — no  more; 
Bill  received  a  letter  recently  from  her." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  I  have  said  is  true,"  he  continued ;  "if 
Bill  cannot  stand  the  test  he  is  unworthy  of  his  sweet- 
heart." 

"As  you  see  it,"  I  said;  "but  you  must  remember 
that  Bill  is  young  and  inexperienced,  and  has  not 
learned  to  judge  character  so  well." 

"I  have  considered  that,  or  he  would  never  have 
received  the  letter.  He  has  to  learn  by  experience^ 
though,  and  if  you  tell  him  these  things  you  will  be  doing 
both  Mol  and  himself  an  injury.  Let  his  character  show 
itself.  Experience  alone  develops  that.  I  exact  from 
you  a  promise  not  to  tell  Bill  what  I  have  told  you." 

A  strange  man,  indeed!  How  well  he  knew,  how 
closely  and  yet  how  justly  he  judged  the  world !  He 
was  right;  men  should  be  tested.  All  life  is  a  test,  and 
character  never  shows  itself  so  plainly  as  when  the  test 
is  strongest. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  the  next  time  we  met,  "the  lines  you 
showed  me  some  time  ago  revealed  a  deep  sentiment, 
but  it  was  sickly.  I  think  you  had  better  not  write  in 
that  strain  again.  Be  practical  and  vigorous  in  life; 
do  not  give  way  to  any  form  of  weakness." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you,"  he  said. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  217 

"I  will  repeat  what  the  queer-looking  stranger  that 
you  met  on  the  mountain  said :    'Think  what  I  mean.'  " 

One  day  I  took  Katherine  to  McCabe's  home.  His 
wife  was  thin  and  pale  and  careworn.  She  looked  like 
a  woman  who  had  not  received  the  best  treatment;  she 
was  nervous  and  watchful,  as  if  expectant  of  danger. 

"It's  no  wonder  she's  so,"McCabe  said.  "She  has 
fur  twenty  year  had  cause  ter  be.  When  I  tuk  her,  Miss 
Katherine,  she  didn't  know  I  kep'  er  still;  she  never 
'proved  o'  whiskey,  an'  many  er  time  whin  the  revenue 
men  wus  'round  she'd  try  ter  tell  'bout  the  still,  an'  'd 
tell  me  she  wus  goin'  ter  tell,  so  I  could  git  away.  She 
was  desperate,  I  led  her  such  er  life.  Bub  I'd  keep  her 
locked  up  close.  Many  are  the  times  I's  thrOw'd  her 
'cross  this  room,  too,  whin  I'd  be  drinkin'  an'  mad;  an' 
wunst  I  broke  both  her  arms,  an'  she  was  sick  er  long 
time,  an'  I  'most  wish  she'd  die.  She'd  try  ter  go  ter 
church  sometimes,  but  I'd  ketch  her  an'  bring  her  back. 
Thim  times  is  over  now,  though  she  ain't  realized  it  yit, 
seems  so  OTicommon  ter  her;  but  she  will." 

He  put  his  arm  around  his  wife,  and  stroked  her 
care-furrowed  brow. 

**The  chillun  what  she  wanted  ter  be  good  I've 
brung  up  mos'ly  bad.  Some  has  died  'caze  they  wus 
ill  treated,  but  this  boy,"  taking  his  baby  in  his  arms, 
'  'I'll  bring  up  right  and  true.  Nobody  shan't  say  McCabe 
ain't  got  wun  child  what's  er  man.  An'  now  'bout  them 
stills,  Mr.  Ramla." 

Mrs.  McCabe  and  Katherine  went  into  another  room 
and  McCabe  kept  on  : 

''Thar's  twenty-seven  o'  'm,  an'  they's  all  run  by 
men  I  know.  They's  turned  ag'in'  me  now,  'caze  I  told 
'm  I  wus  goin'  ter  stop  the  traffic.  I'll  have  ter  look 
out  fur  myself.  Thar  ain't  no  use  in  havin'  er  big  fuss. 
The  bes'  way  is  ter  see  the  man  what  owns  near  all  o* 
the  stills  and  git  him  ter  give  up  his  bizness.  I  know 
him.  He  don't  keer  'bout  nothin'  but  the  money  that's 
in  it,  an'  ef  we  could  git   somebody  ter   buy  him  out  at 


218  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

er  big  price  an'  break  it  all  up,  'twould  be  hard  fur  the 
stills  ter  build  up  ag'in.  He  owns  most  o'  the  places 
whar  the  corn  an'  fruit  's  raised,  an'  ef  you  could  buy 
'm,  the  moonshiners  would  sure  be  bad  off.  They  ain't 
rich;  they're  'rested  an'  fined  too  much  ter  save.  You 
see,  this  man  makes  'm  take  all  the  risk  an'  pay  the 
fines,  an'  nobody  don't  know  he's  got  nothin'  ter  do 
with  't.  He's  er  chirch  member,  too,  an'  that's  the 
reason  I  ain't  had  much  confidence  in  chirch  memberi 
'fore  now.  You  see  ef  you  can't  git  good  folks  ter  buy 
him  out." 

'* Would  it  not  be  best  to  prosecute  him?  It  is  a 
shame  for  a  man  like  that  to  impose  upon  the  public." 

''He's  too  smart  fur  you.  You  couldn't  ketch  him. 
The  only  thing  ter  do  is  ter  tell  him  you  hear  he's  got 
fine  farmin'  land,  an'  er  company  wants  ter  buy  him  out. 
You'd  have  ter  offer  him  er  big  price,  though,  'caze  he 
makes  er  lot  o'  money  by  the  stills." 

'*I  am  inclined  to  prosecute  him." 

''Well,  you  kin  try  it,  but  he'll  law  you  out  o'  it." 

"I  will  think  over  it,  Mr.  McCabe,  and  talk  to  my 
friend,  and  will  see  you  again  soon." 

Katherine  had  come  out  to  go,  and  after  a  cordial 
exchange  of  words,  we  left. 

"Mrs.  McCabe  is  such  an  interesting  woman," 
Katherine  said.  "Her  life  has  been  sad  indeed.  She 
told  me  something  of  it,  but  she  did  not  speak  as  freely 
as  her  husband.  She  has  a  good  deal  of  refinement,  and 
belongs  to  a  good  family.  She  wants  all  the  children  to 
come  to  school  next  year,  she  said ;  and  they  have  one 
little  girl  who  looks  so  much  like  her  mother,  whom  she 
wants  me  to  exert  some  influence  over.  She  is  coming 
to  me  every  Saturday,  and  I  will  see  if  I  cannot  be 
worthy  of  the  trust.  See  if  I  do  not  make  a  woman  of 
her." 

The  chief  objection  I  had  to  Katherine's  staying  at 
Walesca  was  that  the  work  was  causing  her  to  mature 
too  rapidly.     She  felt  responsibility  and  care  too  much. 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  219 

I  feared  she  would  skip  the  period  of  girlhood  and  be 
all  a  woman  after  she  was  more  than  a  child.  She  had 
been  very  girlish  when  she  first  came,  but  was  growing 
less  so  every  day.  I  questioned  at  times  if  it  was  right 
to  keep  her;  but  womanhood  is  a  strange  thing  for  a 
man  to  object  to.  I  thought  sometimes  then  that  it 
•could  come  too  soon;  I  doubt  now  if  it  can. 

The  little  McCabe  girl  came  regularly,  and  she  would 
tell  strange,  sad  stories  sometimes  of  her  past  life.  We 
kept  them  sacred.  Her  experiences  seemed,  in  all  their 
horror,  to  have  made  a  fascinating  impression  upon  her. 
She  would  tell  her  stories  in  the  wildest  manner,  with 
voice  and  gesture  as  children  like  to  tell  tales  of  ghost8. 
The  little  spirit  needed  quieting. 

"Kitty,"  I  said  to  her  once,  "that  time  has  passed. 
Suppose  you  talk  about  home  as  it  is  now." 

"Oh!  it's  er  heap  nicer  now;"  then  she  shook  her 
head,  "but  I'll  never  forgit  how  it  use-ter  be." 

Ah !  reform  as  we  may,  the  memory  of  the  past  re- 
mains. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

I  consulted  with  my  friend  as  to  the  course  to  pur- 
sue in  regard  to  the  man  who  owned  the  stills.  He 
thought  that  McCabe's  was  the  surest  way,  so  I  wrote  to 
several  wealthy  men  about  the  matter.  They  all  said, 
^'Prosecute  him;  the  government  provides  for  such  a 
case  as  that."  There  was  little  or  no  sympathy  with 
McCabe's  idea,  and  I  told  McCabe  so. 

"Let  the  matter  rest  er  bit,  thin.  Mebbe  you'll 
come  across  somebody  yit.  I  could  git  rid  o'  the  stills 
in  quick  order,  but  they'd  be  built  up  ag'in.  That  man 
that's  at  the  head  o'  'm  is  the  wun  to  work  with,,an'  not 
the  moonshiners  direct." 

*'You  would  testify  to  his  connection  with  the  stills 
in  court?"  I  asked. 

''Oh,  yes,  I'd  testify;  but  that'd  be  all.  Nobody 
'd  b'lieve  me,  an'  he's  fixed  ter  git  'round  the  law." 

"The  whitecaps,"  I  said,  "are  dealing  with  a  great 
many  people.  I  wonder  they  do  not  call  this  man  to  ac- 
count." 

"Thar's  no  tellin'  'bout  the  whitecaps,  Mr.  Ramla,'* 

I  had  never  seen  the  man  who  owned  the  stills  or 
had  an  interest  in  them,  and  after  some  consideration  I 
thought  it  best  to  do  so,  taking  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  my  friend. 

After  I  had  introduced  myself,  he  said : 

**You  are  doing  a  good  work  at  Walesca,  they  tell 
me — revolutionizing  mountain  life,  and  making  gentle- 
men and  scholars  of  crackers.  I  have  been  anxious  to 
see  the  man  who  can  do  that;  I  am  glad,  indeed,  to 
know  you,"  he  said, 

"1  have  labored  for  four  years  with  the  people  try- 
220 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  221 

ing  to  help  them.  The  condition  is  certainly  improved; 
I  am  open  in  saying  bo  because  I  have  not  labored  alone. 
The  school  is  really  doing  the  work.  My  good  friend, 
the  president  of  the  college,  merits  most  praise,"  I  re- 
plied. 

*'Your  friend  and  mine  merits  much  praise,"  he 
said.  "He  is  a  wonderful  man;  but  he  who  has  gone 
out  into  the  highways  and  hedges  deserves  credit  too.'* 
He  smiled  graciously. 

Surely  he  was  a  charming  man,  I  thought,  and  then 
laughed  at  myself.  We  are  apt  to  consider  men  charm- 
ing when  they  endorse  us.     I  said : 

"Well,  perhaps  the  people  should  have  most  praise 
for  responding  to  our  appeals.  Many  have  responded 
readily,  and  many  others  would,  I  think,  be  persuaded 
to  consider  their  own  interests,  were  it  not  that  a  very 
great  barrier  exists,  and  it  is  that  which  I  have  come  to- 
day to  ask  your  help  in  removing." 

'*With  pleasure,  if  it  is  in  my  power.  I  have  long 
wanted  to  do  my  little  for  so  good  a  cause,"  he  responded, 
"but  my  good  friend  has  slighted  me  in  his  calls,  and  I 
have  felt  some  modesty  in  offering.  Let  me  anticipate 
your  need  now,  however.  You  are  building  a  chapel ;  I 
have  heard  of  it."  He  had  been  writing  while  speaking. 
'* Allow  me,"  he  continued,  handing  me  a  check  for  a 
thousand  dollars. 

"This  is  kind,  indeed,"  I  said;  "the  exchequer  of 
the  college  is  low  and  needs  replenishing.  But  it  was 
not  of  money  1  came  to  speak  to  you  to-day.  It  was  of  a 
need  more  urgent  still." 

He  laughed  : 

"I  thought  that  was  the  sum  of  all  our  needs." 

"It  is  a  great  factor,  but  not  the  sum,"  I  said. 
^ 'There  is  an  evil  to  be  overcome  in  the  mountains. 
Will  you  help  us  overcome  it?" 

"Your  question  is  not  quite  fair.  In  a  general  way, 
I  might  say  that  I  would  help  you  overcome  any  evil, 
but,  specifically,  I  might  not  be  able  to  do  so.     I  have 


222  DOWN  AMONG  THEJ  CKACKERS 

already  said  it  would  be  my  pleasure  to  help  you  in  any 
way  in  my  power.     I  repeat  that." 

"I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  then,  that  it  is  in  your 
power,  possibly  more  than  in  any  other  person's,  to  help 
materially  in  uprooting  the  terrible  evil  of  illicit  distill- 
ing in  the  mountains." 

"How,  sir,  is  it  in  my  power?  I  do  not  visit  your 
place  once  a  year,  and  I  really  know  very  little  about 
that  section.     Are  there  many  blind  stills?" 

**A  great  many,"  I  answered;  "I  am  told  there  are 
twenty-seven." 

"Is  it  possible.?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  do  you  not 
call  on  the  revenue  oflScers?  I  can  assist  you  a  little  in 
that  just  now,  perhaps.  An  officer  is  in  town  to-day, 
and  you  can  send  him  there  immediately.  You  know 
these  men  become  as  desperate  as  the  moonshiners,  and 
it  would  be  fun  for  them  to  get  into  a  neit  of  twenty- 
seven  stills.  Shall  I  send  for  the  officer?"  he  said,  with 
his  hand  on  the  bell. 

"It  is  useless,"  I  answered;  "the  revenue  officers 
have  been  there  many  times,  and  all  that  they  can  do  is 
to  arrest  the  moonshiners  and  take  them  to  Atlanta  to  be 
fined  or  imprisoned.  The  stills  go  on  again  as  soon  as 
the  moonshiners  return.  We  have  had  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  Do  you  not  remember  the  conspiracy  and 
the  murder  of  an  officer  some  years  ago.  Though  the 
conspirators  were  brought  to  justice,  the  nefarious  busi- 
ness goes  on." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  McCabe  was  not  hung,  either* 
He  ought  to  have  been,"  he  stid. 

"So  many  thought  at  that  time,"  I  replied.  "Da 
you  know  that  he  has  become  a  Christian,  and  is  now 
living  an  honest,  upright  life?" 

*'No,  I  did  not  know  it;  and  you  will  pardon  me  for 
saying  that  you  do  not  know  it  yet.  You  do  not  know 
how  many  blind  stills  he  runs  under  the  garb  of  a 
correct  outward  life." 

"No, "  I  replied,  "I  think  McCabe  is  in  earnest.    He 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  2211 

ie  an  open  man.  He  was  open  as  an  outlaw.  But  you 
are  right — it  is  impossible  to  judge  a  man'  heart ;  and 
many  men  do  live  double  lives." 

He  changed  color. 

"Well,  Mr.  Ramla,  I  am  very  Porry  for  you,  indeed. 
It  must  be  trying  beyond  measure  to  carry  on  your 
work  in  the  face  of  such  an  obstacle ;  but  I  really  do  not 
know  what  course  to  suggest,  except  to  insist  upon  the 
government's  being  more  vigilant.  Individuals  can  do 
nothing,  and  the  government  should  be  more  interested 
than  you.  I  would  like  very  much  to  assist  you,  but 
really  you  must  see  that  I  can  do  nothing." 

"Do  you  not  own  land  in  that  section?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  own  quite  a  large  tract  upon  Pine  Log 
Mountain,  but  I  know  very  little  about  the  condition  of 
it,  I  go  there  seldom.  You  surely  do  not  want  to 
enlarge  the  college  possessions  so  much  as  to  wish 
my  land?" 

"I  wish  the  college  could  buy  it,"  I  said.  "You 
rent  it  in  small  lots  now,  I  believe?" 

"Yes,  rather  small.  The  people  cannot  afford  to 
rent  much  land." 

"Do'you  know  that  more  than  half  the  blind  stills 
on  Pine  Log  Mountain  are  on  your  land?" 

"I  have  feared  those  mountain  folks  could  not 
be  trusted;  but  when  I  rent  land  I  am  not  supposed  to 
know  in  what  business  my  renters  engage ;  and  as  I  do 
not  go  to  Walesca  very  often,  I  could  not  know  every- 
thing that  is  done  there." 

"That  is  very  true,  but  by  actual  count  more  than 
half  the  blind  stills  are  on  your  land.  That  is  why 
I  have  come  to  you  to-day.  Now,  will  you  not  say  this 
to  every  renter,  and  help  the  crackers  that  much ;  'I  will 
rent  you  the  land  only  on  condition  that  you  do  not  put 
an  illicit  still  upon  it?" 

"You  ask  a  good  deal,  Mr.  Ramla.  I  cannot  afford 
not  to  rent  the  land." 

"You  could  if  you  would  do  what  I  ask — your 
promise,  sir,"  I  said. 


224  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'I  have  not  broken  it.  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  my 
rents,  and  to  do  what  you  ask  would  be  to  lose  them. 
Besides,"  he  added,  "moonshiners  are  without  honor. 
I  might  exact  such  a  promise,  but  they  would  break  it." 

*'But  you  have  the  law  to  sustain  you  in  that." 

*'So  have  you  in  breaking  up  the  stills,"  he  re- 
torted. 

"I  appeal  to  you  as  a  man  interested  in  the  ele- 
vation of  humanity,"  I  said. 

**It  is  not  necessary  to  make  that  appeal.  It  is  my 
constant  wish  to  elevate  humanity,  but  I  cannot  do  what 
you  ask.  I  shall  be  glad,  though,  for  you  to  take  this 
check  to  aid  you  in  your  work." 

"Does  your  land  bring  you  so  much?  Could  you 
not  better  afford  to  do  what  I  ask?" 

He  knew  what  I  meant  when  I  asked  if  his  land 
rented  for  so  much. 

"This  is  one  gift;  that  would  bo  continual  giving 
beyond  my  means." 

"I  am  sorry  you  think  as  you  do,"  I  said,  and  left 
him. 

Some  months  after  this  I  received  a  telegram  from 
him,  asking  me  to  see  him.  I  went,  and  found  him  very 
ill. 

*'I  can  live  but  a  short  time,"  he  said.  "Do  not  in- 
terrupt me  in  what  I  shall  say.  My  words  must  be  few. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  was  made  the  guardian  of  two 
young  girls.  They  had  money  and  land.  While  they 
lived  I  saw  that  they  were  comfortable,  but  I  never  gave 
them  the  full  interest  on  their  money.  I  invested  it  for 
myself.  Their  land  was  a  large  tract  on  Pine  Log 
Mountain,  supposed  to  be  rich  in  minerals.  A  mining 
syndicate  offered  a  price  for  it  conditioned  upon  the 
mineral  actually  taken  out,  but  I  refused  to  sell.  I 
found  that  renting  the  land  to  moonshiners  for  shares  in 
their  profits,  making  them  take  all  risks,  and  never  al- 
lowing my  name  to  be  used  if  they  were  discovered,  was 
the  most  profitable  way  to  use  the  land.      The  two  girls 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  226 

died  before  either  was  of  age  or  married.  They  left  no 
relatives  that  could  claim  the  land,  and  they  willed  it  to 
me,  giving  their  money  to  a  charitable  cause,  but  all  the 
money  never  reached  the  cause  for  which  they  left  it.  I 
now  confess  my  sin,  and  have  willed  to  that  cause 
the  sum  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  The  land  may 
be  good  for  its  ore.  I  have  deeded  it  to  the  college  at 
Walesca,  except  the  homes  of  the  moonshiners,  which  I 
give  to  them  upon  the  condition  that  they  will  never  dis- 
till another  drop  of  whiskey  there.  If  at  any  time  a 
moonshiner  to  whom  I  have  given  his  home  should  dis- 
till whiskey,  his  home  is  forfeited,  to  be  used  as  you 
think  best.  You  are  shocked  at  the  story  of  my  life," 
he  said  ;  *'I  am  shocked  at  it  myself,  and  tremble  for  my 
account  to  be  rendered  at  the  last  great  tribunal.  May 
the  Great  Judge  be  merciful,   for  mercy  only  can  save 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

We  appealed  to  the  mining  syndicate  to  make  us  an 
offer  for  the  land,  but  after  sinking  several  trial  shafts, 
they  concluded  that  the  ore  was  not  sufficiently  produc- 
tive to  justify  them  in  working  it.  This  was  a  disap- 
pointment, because  we  had  hoped  that  the  moonshiners 
could  be  furnished  with  honorable  work  that  would  com- 
pensate them  for  their  loss  in  the  stills.  Now  the  land 
is  cultivated  as  farming  land.  The  corn  and  fruit 
crops  are  large,  and  some  revenue  accrues  from  it. 
There  is  a  fine  grazing  plot,  too,  which  stook-raisers 
rent  from  the  college.  We  still  hope  to  develop  the  min- 
ing interests  some  day. 

I  made  a  round  of  visits  after  this.  The  rheumatic 
berry-gatherer's  was  the  first  home  I  entered.  I  thought 
at  first  that  I  had  lost  my  bearings  when  I  passed  his 
old  home.  The  cabin  no  longer  stood;  the  serpent  had 
not  his  covert  in  the  weeds  about  the  door ;  the  place 
yielded  crops  like  the  one  adjoining  it.  In  fact,  it  was 
now  a  part  of  that  well  kept  farm. 

*'Mr.  Quinn,  I  hope  you  and  Miss  Betsey  are  well. 
You  will  pardon  me  for  calling  her  so.  I  knew  her  some 
time  before  you  were  married,  and  it  seems  more 
natural." 

"Oh!  that's  all  right.  I  call  her  Miss  Betsey  some- 
times myself.  'Pears  more  like  she  was,  the  way  she 
bosses  me  'round." 

He  laughed,  and  his  cracked  voice  sounded  queer. 

*'Now,  Quinn,  you  know  that  ain't  so.  You  ain't 
no  henpecked  man.  'Tain't  worth  while  ter  try  ter 
make  folks  b'lieve  you  air,  jes'  'caze  I  wouldn't  let  the 
weeds  keep  growin'  over  yonder  where  he  use  ter  live, 
whin  the  place  could  raise  better  stuff." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  227 

"Ennything  better*n  blackberries?"  the  old  man 
asked. 

'  'Plenty  o'  things.  I  ain't  got  no  time  ter  be  pickin* 
berries,  an'  you's  got  too  stiff  ter  do  it.'  Tain' ter  profit- 
able bizness  nohow.  You  never  got  rich  at  it.  I  jes* 
want  'nough  ter  presarve  an'  can." 

"That  place  wus  my  home  fur  thirty  year,  Mr. 
Ramla,  an'  I  hated  ter  see  it  changed.  Don't  seem  the 
same  no  more.  It's  kinder  like  I'd  moved  ter  er  differ^ 
ent  country."  After  a  moment's  silence,  he  continued: 
"Thar's  more  things  makes  me  feel  like  I  wus  on  new 
land.  The  blind  stills  's  closin'  up,  an'  the  man  what 
owned  'em  made  cur'us  gifts  o'  hi&  land." 

"It's  er  good  thing,  Mr.  Ramla,"  his  wife  said, 
*'Quinn  was  too  fond  o'  goin'  behind  stumps  an'  bushes 
ter  git  er  bottle,  'ecusin*  it  on  his  rheumatiz  ;  I's  glad  o' 
it." 

"Well,  now,  I  dunno  if  it  wus  er  good  thing ; — yes,  I 
reckin  'twus,  too.  I  didn't  use  ter  think  that  way  'bout 
drinkin',  but  now  my  thoughts  is  different  on  the  sub- 
ject.    Betsey,  bring  the  boy  here." 

"He's  asleep,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Ramla  kin  come  ter 
him." 

I  followed  her  into  the  house  and  stood  by  her  side 
over  a  tiny  board  cradle,  in  which  a  splendid  baby  lay 
in  innocent  slumber. 

"I  want  you  ter  make  er  man  o'  him  over  thar  at 
the  college  some  time ;  I'll  try  ter  start  him  right  at 
home,"  she  laid;  and  as  I  turned  to  go  out  of  the  room, 
"Mr.  Ramla,"  she  added,  "Quinn  an'  me  do  love  each 
other  er  lot,  ef  we  do  talk  kinder  cross." 

I  assured  her  that  I  knew  them  both  too  well  not  to 
know  that. 

"You  can  never  afford  to  drink  again,  Mr.  Quinn," 
I  said. 

"Naw,  that's  so;  reckin  I's  glad  it's  gone." 

Next  I  visited  a  house  that  I  have  not  mentioned 
before — the  home  of  a  drunkard.  I  will  not  picture  it. 
Those  homes  are  too  common. 


228  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

"Well,  you  have  done  er  great  work.  Don't  talk  ter 
me  'bout  the  great  work  you're  doin'  at  the  college  no 
more,"  said  a  man,  tottering  from  excitement  and  ner- 
vousness, and  shaking  his  head  and  waving  me  away 
with  his  hand.     "Idon't  b'lievenothin'  you  do  is  good." 

"Why,  Mr.  Black,  what  have  I  done  to  displease 
you  so?"  I  asked. 

"You  know  well  'nough.  Ax  me,  indeed,  what  you 
done!  You  persuaded  the  man  that  owned  the  stills  to 
break  *m  up.  Now,  ef  er  man  wants  the  stuff,  he's  got 
ter  walk  'til  he's  sick  ter  git  it.  I  don't  b'lieve  in 
tre'tin'  folks  that  way." 

*'It  is  the  kindest  treatment  you  could  receive,"  I 
said. 

*'  'Cordin'  ter  the  way  you  look  at  it,"  he  said,  and 
left  the  house  in  disgust. 

"An'  'cordin  to  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  his  wife  said. 
"I's  so  glad  on  'count  o'  him;"  and  she  thanked  me. 

They  had  a  child  that  had  periodic  attacks  of  in- 
sanity.    "How  is  Jimmy?"  I  asked. 

"Oh!  he's  out  ag'in." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  I  said. 

"Oh!  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  be  sorry.  You  gin- 
er'ly  seem  sympathizin'  like." 

"I  thought  you  said  he  was  better?" 

"Naw,  I  said  he  wus  out." 

"Oh!"  catching  her  meaning,  "I  misunderstood 
you." 

"Yes,  the  old  man  put  him  out  by  grumblin'  so'  bout 
the  stills.  He  wus  gittin'  all  right  'fore  that.  It's  al- 
lurs  been  the  old  man  that's  put  him  out,  an'  I'm  glad 
the  stills  is  gone." 

"Mr.  Sims,  I  know  you  are  pleased  with  Bob's  pro- 
gress in  school.     He  is  learning  fast." 

"So  well  pleased  I's  goin'  ter  send  two  more  this 
fall.  But,  see  here.  Bob  says  thar  ain't  's  much  made 
o'  him  's  thar  wus  o'  Sam  Collins." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEKS  229 

"Well,  Sam  was  Bill's  brother,  was  one  reason  of 
that.     Everybody  likes  Bill." 

''Here,  stop  er  minute.     Bob's  my  boy." 

"Yes,  but  you  are  not  in  school  w^th  him." 

"Well,  thar  may  be  somethin'  in  that.  I'm  mighty 
glad  the  stills  's  goin'.  I  never  did  drink,  an' I  don't 
want  my  chillen  ter." 

The  sentiment  of  almost  all  the  community  was  op- 
posed to  the  stills,  and  after  hearing  the  expressions  of 
the  people  I  went  home  better  satisfied  with  them  and 
more  hopeful  of  their  future  than  I  had  ever  been.  The 
majority  of  the  boys  seemed  glad,  too. 

"It  will  not  be  so  easy  for  us  to  fall  into  tempta- 
tion now,"  was  the  common  expression  of  gratitude. 

Callaway  and  a  few  others,  I  understood,  were  of  a 
different  opinion. 

Callaway  continued  to  worry  Bill  about  Mol,  and 
Bill  worried  me.  I  was  almost  disgusted  with  his  vac- 
illating opinions.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  what  I  had  been 
told  about  Callaway's  motives.  But,  no;  the  watch- 
man was  right;  let  him  be  tested. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  when  he  was  again  talking  to  me 
about  doubting  Mol,  "did  you  ever  notice  the  effect  of 
one  thing  upon  many  different  things — how  the  influ- 
ence differs  if  effected  at  all?" 

"Often,"  he  said. 

"Then  listen:  The  rain  falls  in  beating  fury,  the 
fowls  hasten  to  their  roosts,  horses  and  cattle  go  in 
their  stalls,  children  run  in  from  play,  men  and  women 
hasten  to  the  houses ;  in  the  mountains  the  wild  beast 
creeps  to  his  lair;  but  what  are  the  things  that  remain 
outside  to  be  pelted  by  the  rain?  The  hard  rock  cliffs 
stand  firm,  until  slowly  century  after  century  they 
yield,  and  disintegrate  little  by  little,  so  that  the  earth 
may  be  enriched;  the  rivers  spead  over  their  banks, 
until  these  are  worn  away,  and  the  sediment  that  has 
come  down  from  the  mountain  is  spread  over  the  valley ; 
the  waters  turn  a  thousand  wheels;  the  springs  fill,  the 


230  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKEES 

wells  rise,  the  meadow-grass  grows  green,  the  trees 
spread  themselves,  unfold  their  leaves,  and  in  the  end 
the  creatures  that  have  gone  in  are  blessed  by  the  things 
that  remained  out." 

'*But  those  that  went  in  were  not  wrong.  They 
would  not  have  been  benefited  by  remainin'   out." 

"That  is  just  what  I  wanted  you  to  observe — not  so 
much  the  blessing  that  accrued  to  either,  but  the  effect 
of  the  rain  upon  each.  It  is  the  nature  of  animals  to 
fle©  from  it,  though  it  comes  to  them  indirectly  as  one 
of  their  greatest  blessings.  It  is  the  nature  of  rivers 
and  rocks  and  meadows  and  trees  to  remain  in  it, 
though  the  benefit  is  for  others.  The  rain  effects  every- 
thing according  to  its  nature;  so  does  every  other  influ- 
ence. So,  in  the  end,  it  is  more  the  nature  than  the  in- 
fluence. The  influence  only  lays  bare  the  nature. 
Again,  did  you  ever  notice  how  one  thing  is  affected 
differently  at  different  times  by  the  same  influence?" 

"Yes." 

"In  winter  the  trees  and  the  meadows  do  not  yield 
to  happy  influences  from  the  rain.  The  dried  grass  be- 
comes not  green,  the  bare  limbs  do  not  put  forth  as  in 
the  spring  or  summer.  It  would  seem  that  the  rain  had 
lost  its  power.  But  no ;  the  nature  of  the  tree  and  the 
meadow  is  not  the  same  in  different  seasons.  But  the 
rocks  and  the  rivers  have  not  changed.  They  are  em- 
blems of  strength." 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  mean — whether  upon 
different  objects,  or  the  same  objects  at  different  times, 
circumstances,  or  the  things  that  stand  around  them, 
only  show  their  nature,  and — you's  talkin'  'bout 
me,"  he  continued,  more  excited,  and  going  back  to 
the  cracker  dialect.  "Callaway's  talk  'bout  Mol'  jes' 
brings  out  my  nature.  Another  man  might  act  differ- 
ent from  me,  an'  not  pay  no  'tention  co  it — jes'  love 
Mol  more;  an'  thin  you  want  ter  tell  me  I  change  like 
the  tree  that's  bare  an'  brown  in  winter.  I  wouldn't  have 
b'lieved  Callaway  once,  though  I  did  make  Mol  miserable 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CJIACKERS  231 

on  'count  of  him  ;  an'  now  I'm  too  ready  to  b'lieve  enny- 
thing  he  says.  I  reckon  you're  right,  Mr.  Ramla,"  he 
continued,  rising,  "I  don't  love  Mol  as  I  used  ter." 

"Ah,  I  thought  it.  Then  you  should  try  by  every 
means  possible  to  tell  her  so,  so  that  she  may  be  free  to 
care  for  some  one  else." 

"I  cannot,  when  I  don't  know  where  she  is." 

"Then  let  Callaway  tell  her.  He  probably  knows. 
But  so  far  as  her  caring  for  him  is  concerned,  I  put  no 
■credence  in  it  at  all  now,"  I  said. 

"No,"  said  he,  "she  shall  never  with  my  consent 
learn  of  my  change  of  feeling  from  him.  I  have  too  much 
sentiment  for  what  has  been  for  that.  Then  I'm  not 
ready  to  tell  her  yet ;  I'm  not  sure  of  myself.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  still  love  her  or  not." 

"Then  it  is  time  you  were  becoming  sure  of  your- 
self," I  said  firmly.  "What  has  caused  you  to  change, 
Bill?" 

"I  hardly  know,  except  this:  I  am  getting  an 
education,  and  it  has  given  me  a  taste  for  higher  things. 
I  have  aspirations  and  hopes  that,  try  as  I  may,  I  can- 
not weave  Mol  into.  She  is  ignorant,  and  could  not  ap- 
preciate my  feeling,  could  not  aid  me  in  my  efforts  for 
a  better  life.  And  more,  I  am  not  altogether  selfish ; 
she  could  not  enjoy  the  life  I  hope  to  live ;  she  would 
be  miserable." 

"And  you  would,  too,  you  think.  I  am  glad  you 
•did  not  say  it.  Your  feeling  is  unworthy  of  you.  If 
that  is  your  nature,  I  am  disappointed  in  you,"  I  said. 
"Would  you  torget  your  mother,  dear  to  your  heart  since 
childhood?" 

"Never!"  he  replied. 

"Ah !  Bill,  your  present  feelings  will  lead  to  it. 
True  and  faithful  as  your  mother  this  girl  has  been 
since  you  were  children.  I  would  not  throw  a  damper 
on  your  ambitions,  but  there  are  ties  that  ambition 
should  not  break ;  ties  that  if  one  is  faithful  to  will  not 
interfere  with   a   right  ambition.     In   some  mysterious 


232  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

way,  it  may  be,  they  shall  be  shown  compatible,  and 
shall  go  hand  in  hand.  I  would  not  advise  any  man  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  who  is  not  his  equal  in  intel- 
lect, aspiration,  or  character;  but  when  a  tie  has  bound 
for  years  two  souls  in  bonds  of  love,  and  one  rises  above 
the  other  in  any  of  these  things,  one  should  be  true  to 
the  tie,  and  the  result  will  somehow  work  out  for  his 
highest  gratification — at  least,  for  his  highest  peace.' ^ 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

When  I  next  saw  my  friend  I  said  to  him  :  '*I  am 
disappointed  in  Bill.  I  can  appreciate  your  feeling 
when  his  little  brother  died;  there  is  a  sense  of  loss." 
Then  I  told  him  of  Bill's  changed  feelings  towards  Mol. 

"Do  you  know  that  would  be  exceedingly  gratify- 
ing instead  of  disappointing  to  some  men?  They  would 
consider  it  the  highest  sign  of  improvement  in  Bill,  and 
encourage  him  to  cultivate  the  feeling.  There  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  in  defense  of  their  position,  too. 
What  is  the  little  quiver  of  one  heact,  that  will  soon  beat 
itself  out,  compared  to  the  work  of  a  life?  I  have  often 
wondered  if  it  would  not  be  better  to  advise  some  of 
these  people  to  break  away  from  their  surroundings, 
leave  their  homes,  and  leap  into  another  existence.  It 
is  so  hard  to  cling  with  one  hand  to  the  old  life,  and 
with  the  other  to  take  hold  of  the  new.  Except  for  the 
mothers  I  would  often  advise  this.  Bill  would  certainly 
be  kept  down  by  Mol.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  did  last 
year.  A  widow  came  to  me  and  said,  *I  am  very 
anxious  to  go  to  school ;  my  health  is  not  good  and  I 
cannot  stand  working  in  the  field.  Then  I  am  ambi- 
tious ;  I  look  beyond  the  common,  sordid  life  that  I  have 
always  lived,  and  want  to  make  something  of  myself. 
My  husband  and  two  children  are  dead;  I  am  entirely 
without  means,  and  must  either  support  myself  by  labor 
or  be  dependent  on  my  father.  I  am  at  his  home  now ; 
he  does  not  want  me  to  work  for  myself,  because  my  la- 
bor is  valuable  to  him  at  home;  he  keeps  my  younger  sis- 
ter there  instead  of  sending  her  to  school,  because  it  is 
cheaper  to  have  her  than  to  hire  a  hand.  He  wants  me 
to  stay  for  the  same  reason,  and  not  only  refuses  to  pay 

233 


234  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

my  tuition  if  I  come  to  school,  but  calls  me  an  ingrate, 
because  I  want  an  education ;  he  thinks  I  ought  to  help 
him  because  I  now  have  to  live  at  his  house,  and  he  will 
always  keep  me  bound  down  in  this  way  if  T  will  allow 
him.  What  would  you  do?'  I  said,  'I  would  come  to 
school.  Your  father  and  mother  are  growing  old,  and 
they  will  need  your  help  more  in  a  few  years  than  they 
need  it  now.  You  would  afford  them  and  yourself  a 
bare  support  by  working  the  farm.  Educate  yourself 
and  prepare  to  support  your  parents  and  yourself  well. 
Your  father  has  no  right  to  keep  down  your  ambition. 
Make  a  useful  woman  of  yourself,  and  merit  the  final 
plaudits  of  the  good.  When  you  engage  in  rough 
farm  work  you  blunt  and  rust  the  blade  of  intellect. 
Reason  with  your  father,  tell  him  it  is  for  him  and  your 
mother  that  you  take  the  step  you  do,  as  well  as  for 
yourself  and  the  world;  and  in  time,  if  not  now,  he  will 
see  that  you  are  right.  Help  him  all  you  can  when  you 
are  not  in  school,  and  in  every  way  show  a  willingness 
to  do  right.'  I  have  advised  several  not  to  stay  at  home 
after  leaving  school,  but  to  go  into  the  world  and  make 
something  of  themselves.  What  is  the  use  of  being  ed- 
ucated, and  then  going  back  to  the  same  old  life?  They 
will  soon  rust  out  and  be  what  all  the  generations  of  the 
past  have  been.  You  have  to  deal  heroically  with  some 
cases.  If  you  let  Bill  marry  Mol  and  settle  down, 
he  will  always  be  the  same  Bill  Collins,  when  he  really 
wants  to  make  something  of  himself." 

"The  cases  you  speak  of  are  different  from  his,"  I 
said.  *'His  is  purely  a  matter  of  constancy  to  the  high- 
est thing  in  the  world — pure  love.  I  know  not  how,  but 
I  believe  that  if  Bill  is  true  to  Mol,  everything  will  yet 
be  right,  and  he  can  make  of  himself  all  he  is  capable 
of." 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  my  friend.  "At  the  begin- 
ning I  thought  as  you  do  about  Bill,  but  I  have  argued 
myself  into  a  different  belief  now.  I  hope  he  will  never 
marry  Mol." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS  235 

"A  short  argument  will  sometimes  lead  men  into  a 
belief  that  their  mature  reason  opposes,"  I  replied. 

"It  is  only  a  matter  of  sentiment  with  you,"  he 
•said. 

"It  is  firm  principle,"  I  hotly  retorted,  and  left 
him. 

Bill  came  to  see  me  that  night. 

"I  felt  condemned  after  what  you  said  to  me,  Mr. 
Ramla,  and  since  then  I  have  thought  much  over  my 
lost  love  for  Mol.  I  believe  I'm  right  in  not  caring  for 
her  longer.  When  a  girl  does  as  she's  done  for  the  last 
three  years,  I  do  not  know  that  any  man  need  feel 
bound  to  her." 

"If  Mol  had  given  no  promise  for  the  future,  you 
might  be  justified  in  feeling  that  way;  but  seeing  that 
she  has  given  you  evidence  of  her  intention  to  be  faith- 
ful, I  think  you  would  be  wrong  to  be  faithless,"  I 
eaid. 

"Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  but  at  any  rate  I  don't  love 
her  any  longer.  Love  is  not  governed  by  reason.  You 
■can't  stay  in  love  with  a  woman  Just  because  you  think 
you  ought  to.  The  heart  is  not  bought  and  sold  like 
merchandise;  neither  is  it  controlled  by  obligation." 

"Oh  !  it  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  an  exposition 
of  love.  I  see  it  is  no  use  to  talk  to  you  longer,"  I  said. 
*'But  your  action  is  strange.  Bill — very  strange.  I  am 
disappointed  in  you,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Ramla.  I  had  rather  fail  to 
meet  the  wishes  of  any  other  human  being,  but  this  is  a 
matter  I  cannot  change.  Some  day  you  will  know  me 
better  and  judge  me  more  fairly  than  you  do  now. 
I  am  going  to  see  Mol's  mother.  I  haven't  failed  to  go 
a  day  since  she  left,  but  I  mean  I  shall  go  next  to  speak 
to  her  of  Mol  and  my  changed  feelings.  She  talks 
to  me  every  day  about  her,  and  takes  it  for  granted  that 
I  still  care  for  her,  and  it  grates  upon  me  terribly.  I 
feel  like  a  hypocrite  every  time  I  see  her." 

The   next   day   Bill   went.     I  saw  him  going  and 


236  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CBACKEES 

walked  slowly  behind  a  few  minutes  after.  I  thought  I 
would  go  in  and  try  to  console  the  old  lady  after 
Bill  left.  I  went  on  the  mountain  and  sat  where  I  could 
see  the  door.  I  waited  a  long,  long  time.  Poor  Bill ! 
I  would  not  have  had  his  task  for  a  great  deal. 

Mrs.  Smith  had  grown  morbid ;  she  thought  and 
spoke  of  no  one  but  Mol,  and  did  not  seem  to  care  to  talk 
to  anyone  but  Bill  and  myself.  That  was  what  tried  Bill 
so ;  he  could  not  bear  to  talk  of  Mol  now.  I  had  noticed 
in  my  last  few  conversations  with  him  that  it  had  seemed 
to  irritate  him  for  me  to  speak  of  her.  It  was  a  guilty 
conscience  that  caused  him  to  feel  so,  I  was  sure. 

At  last  I  saw  him  come  out,  and  I  went  into  the 
house.  Mrs.  Smith  had  fallen,  and  was  lying  face  down- 
ward on  the  floor.  She  had  fainted.  I  lifted  her  and 
placed  her  on  the  bed,  and  then  bathed  her  face.  I  was 
afraid  to  leave  her  to  go  for  anyone  else.  She  came  to 
in  a  few  moments,  and  looked  up  at  me  as  wildly  as  if 
she  were  not  in  her  right  mind. 

''What  is  it,  Mr.  Ramla?  What's  the  matter?  Oh ! 
yes,  I  know.  Bill  Collins  has  been  here,  an'  he  didn't 
have  no  good  news.  Did  you  find  me  on  the  floor?  Yes, 
I  'spectyou  did.  I  don't  r'member  much  arter  he  left. 
My  brain  kinder  whirled  'round,  an'  that  is  all  I  know. 
It's  all  over  with  him,  Bill  says.  Did  he  tell  you?  He 
can't  love  Mol  no  more  'caze  she  went  'way  an'  left  ua; 
an'  he  don't  know  whether  she  thinks  'bout  him  still. 
He  b'lieves  in  Mol,  though,  he  says,  an'  he  knows  she'll 
come  back  ter  take  keer  o'  me.  He  said  he'd  still  come 
an'  help  me  ever'  day  like  he's  been  doin'  all  along,  but 
I  don't  want  him  ter ;  couldn't  bear  ter  see  him  now 
never  no  more.  An'  I  was  so  proud  o'  him,  too ;  prouder'n 
his  own  mam.  He's  been  gittin  so  smart.  Do  you  know, 
I  b'lieve  that's  what's  the  matter  with  Bill ;  he  thinks 
my  Mol  won't  be  smart  'nough  fur  him.  Of  course  he 
didn't  say  so ;  he  laid  it  all  on  her  goin'  off, an'  he  didn't 
think  she  loves  him  yit.  That  didn't  satisfy  me,  'caze 
ef  I  kin  think  Mol'll  be  constant  ter  me.  Bill   ought   ter 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  237 

think  she'd  be  constant  ter  him.  I  dunno  what  I'll  do; 
•didn't  have  nobody  but  Bill  ter  comfort  me  while  Mol's 
gone,  'cept  you  sometimes,  Mr.  Ramla,  but  you  ain't 
been  like  Bill ;   he  sorter  'peared  ter  b'long  ter  me." 

She  spoke  in  this  strain  a  long  time,  and  then  began 
talking  incoherently.  I  felt  anxious,  and  went  for  Mrs. 
Oollins  to  come  and  stay  with  her  while  1  should  go  to 
Walesca  for  a  physician. 

When  the  physician  saw  Mrs.  Smith  he  said  she 
was  in  a  very  precarious  condition.  She  was  old,  the 
shock  had  been  severe,  and  her  nerves  could  not  stand 
much  now.  The  only  thing  that  would  really  do  her 
much  good  would  be  for  her  daughter  to  come. 

Katherine  went  to  stay  with  her  and  nurse  her.  Bill 
seemed  greatly  distressed.  His  mother  condemned  him 
severely — the  first  time  I    ever  heard  her  do  so. 

Somehow  Mol  heard  of  her  mother's  illness,  and 
came  three  days  after  she  was  taken  sick.  She  seemed 
to  have  toned  down  very  much.  Evidently  she  had  been 
associated  with  refined  people.  Her  speech  was  a  good 
deal  improved  too,  and  her  dress  greatly  so.  She  was 
terribly  shocked  at  her  mother's  condition. 

"She  doesn't  look  like  mam,"  she  said  to  me,  "and 
all  on  account  of  that  Bill  Collins.  He's  caused  me 
nothin'  but  trouble  for  years  and  years.  Why  couldn't 
he  'a'  kept  his  feelings  to  himself,  I'd  like  to  know,  or 
waited  until  I  come,  an'  then  told  me.  There  warn't  no 
use  in  makin'  mam  miserable,  let  alone  makin'  her  sick. 
It's  a  shame.  He's  showed  me  what  he  is.  He  ain't 
worth  my  love  to  be  as  inconstant  as  he's  been,  an'  then 
to  come  here  and  put  mam  in  this  fix." 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "Bill  did  not  intend  to  do  any 
harm." 

"He  ought  to  have  known  mam  better,  an'  I  b'lieve 
he  did." 

"Don't  be  unreasonable,  Miss  Mollie.  Bill  is  not  a 
mean  boy,  and  such  a  motive  could  come  only  from  a 
vile  heart." 


238  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"Then,  maybe  I'm  wrong  in  judging  him, but  it  was 
a  curious  way  to  do." 

**I  cried  to  explain  Bill's  feeling  to  her  as  I  under- 
stood it,  but  she  would  not  understand.  Bill  sent  to 
know  if  she  would  see  him.  She  refused  for  a  long  time 
but  I  told  her  it  was  only  just  to  him  that  she  should. 

**He  ain't  been  just  to  me,"  she  answered,  "but  you 
can  let  him  come." 

Bill  told  me  afterwards  that  it  was  the  most  trying 
conversation  he  ever  held  with  anyone,  unless  it  was 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her  mother. 

"I  told  her  I'd  be  faithful  still  if  she'd  let  me,  but 
she  wouldn't  hear  to  it;  and  I  reckon  it's  well  enough, 
because  I  don't  think  Mol's  the  girl  for  me  any  longer.'* 

Mrs.  Smith  recovered  slowly,  and  Mol  nursed  her 
faithfully;  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  up  for  her 
absence,  and  as  she  aptly  said  to  me,  "for  bein'  her 
daughter." 

"All  this  has  come  through  me,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it.  The  best  folks  in  the  land  advised  me  to  do  it,  and 
I  know  it  has  been  for  the  best." 

I  thought  I  would  ask  some  time  where  she  had 
been  and  why  her  actions  had  been  so  mysterious,  but  I 
had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  her  away  from  her  mother. 
Bill  told  me  that  he  had  insisted  upon  knowing,but  she 
refused  to  say. 

When  Mrs.  Smith  was  well  I  went  to  see  them  one 
day.  Mol  had  left.  She  had  employed  a  young  girl,  a 
cousin  of  hers,  Rebecca  Jane  Smith,  to  stay  with  her 
mother,  and  had  gone  away  as  before. 

"She  wouldn't  let  me  stay  here  by  myself  no  more," 
the  old  woman  said,  "but  she  know'd  it  wus  bes'  fur 
her  ter  go  ag'in,  an'  she  wouldn't  tell  me  why  no  more'n 
she  would  before.  She  sed  she'd  alius  hear  ef  thar  wus 
anything  the  matter  jes'  like  she  did  this  time.  I'm 
better  satisfied  now  I  know  Mol  kin  hear,  an'  I'm  better 
satisfied  'caze  Mol's  been  home  wunst  more." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  man  who  had  owned  the  stills  left  a  written 
statement.  When  a  man  had  opened  a  still  that  was  not 
on  his  land,  he  had  located  it  and  quietly  notified  the 
revenue  officers;  he  had  been  "riding  through  the 
country  and  had  seen  signs  of  it."  In  that  way  he  kept 
the  revenue  officers  thinking  that  he  was  interested  in 
destroying  the  stills,  and  made  his  own  more  profitable. 
The  moonshiners  had  soon  learned  that  it  was  a  protec- 
tion to  have  stills  on  his  land,  so  when  we  investigated 
the  matter  to  execute  his  will,  we  found  that  every 
blind  still  in  that  section  was  on  his  land.  The  owners 
of  these  stills  had  been  captured  often,  it  is  true,  but 
not  nearly  so  often  as  when  they  had  opposed  the  power 
of  this  cool,  calculating  "Moonshiners'  Boss,"  as  they 
called  him.  They  were  summoned  together, and  the  will 
was  read  to  them  in  court.  This  exposed  them  to  arrest 
and  fine,  but  the  dead  owner  had  bequeathed  to  each  a 
sum  sufficient  to  pay  this  last  fine.  They  accepted  the 
gifts  of  their  lands  very  graciously,  and  pledged  them- 
selves to  observe  the  conditions  of  the  will. 

We  asked  the  revenue  officers  to  continue  their  of- 
ficial vigilance,  and  they  did  so  for  some  time,  but  found 
no  evidence  of  a  violation  on  the  part  of  the  moonshin- 
ers. I,  too,  watched  them,  making  many  a  night's  trip 
to  their  former  dens  of  evil.  There  was  no  sign  of  dig- 
tilling,  and  no  sound  save  that  of  the  mournful  owl  or 
the  deceptive  opossum  in  the  night  watches  around  th« 
former  distillers'  homes. 

The  groceries  were  broken  up,  too,  but  breaking 
them  up  was  as  difficult  work  as  closing  the  stills.  The 
grocery  men  would  buy  from  the  goverment  still,  but 

239 


240  DOWN    AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

later  the  law  that  neither  a  distillery  nor  a  saloon  should 
be  located  within  three  miles  of  a  schoolhouse  or  a 
<;hurch  was  passed,  and  we  were  greatly  protected. 
There  were  churches  on  every  side  of  the  school  several 
miles  distant,  and  the  groceries,  being  compelled  to 
move  three  miles  from  these  churches,  were  a  good  many 
miles  from  us,  so  that  the  saloons  soon  became  a  thing 
■of  the  past  as  far  as  their  influence  upon  us  was  con- 
cerned. 

Mr.  Jones,  the  man  who  ran  the  grocery  already 
mentioned,  and  I  had  become  good  friends  in  spite  of 
my  opposing  his  traffic,  and  not  long  before  the  law  just 
spoken  of  was  passed,  I  went  to  his  home. 

''You  'member  the  first  time  you  come  ter  see  me 
up  at  the  shop,  Mr.  Ramla?" 

*'Yes,  I  shall  never  forget  that,  Mr.  Jones." 
*'Well,  you  wus  the  greenest  man  I  ever  seed;   don't 
b'lieve  you  ever  wus  in  er  grocery  before." 
''Not  like  yours,  Mr.  Jones." 

"Bill  wouldn't  tell  me  yer  name;  he  w^us  right; 
tain't  safe  fur  er  man  ter  be  know'd  by  er  grocery  man 
in  these  diggins  'till  he's  been  here  er  while  an'  proved 
hisself.  It  never  made  much  diff'ence  ter  me,  though; 
I  thought  you  couldn't  do  much  harm;  you  wus  's  in- 
nercent  's  er  goose  wadin'  'round  in  the  pond  whin  I 
goes  down  ter  water  the  barrels.  He  makes  er  awful 
fuss  'round  me  'caze  I  interfere  with  his  puddlin',  but 
he  can't  do  nothin' ;  he  dunno  how.  I  thought  you 
didn't  have  sense  'nough  ter  harm  me." 

"Wait  and  see,  Mr.  Jones.  I  may  show  a  little 
more  brains  in  time." 

*'Not  ef  you's  like  the  thing  I's  likened  you  ter.  I 
never  know'd  er  goose  that  could  be  taught.  You 
musn't  think  hard  o'  me,  Mr.  Ramla;  I  don't  mean  no 
harm  by  calkin'  that  way.  You've  got  sense  'nough  ter 
do  folks  er  power  o'  good,  but  you  ain't  got  'nough  ter 
do  'm  no  harm;  I  mean,  you  ain't  er  sharper  like  me. 
You  can't  git  ahead  o'  me." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  241 

After  che  law  was  passed,  and  he  had  to  close  or 
move  his  saloon,  I  went  to  see  him. 

"Well,  you  ain't  so  smart  'a  you  may  think.  You 
didn't  make  the  law,  but  mebbe  you  axed  'm  ter  make 
it.  Ef  you  did,  it's  the  fust  time  I  ever  wus  outdone  by 
■er  goose." 

He  could  not  dispose  of  his  home  and  land,  and  so 
remained,  and  became  a  quiet,  prosperous  farmer,  while 
his  saloon  stands  untenanted,  bringing  to  mind  the  cor- 
rupt business  that  has  now  gone  to  ruin. 

One  afternoon  I  went  on  the  mountain  to  the  lonely 
grave,  ani  waited  for  the  old  man.  I  loved  to  go  there 
still  and  talk  with  him.  It  was  a  change  from  the  life 
that  elsewhere  swept  its  ceaseless  tide  about  me.  The 
€tooped  form  came  after  a  while,  ascending  slowly  and 
with  effort.  Ah!  it  will  not  be  long,  I  thought,  before 
he  will  come  for  the  last  time,  and  they  will  be  reunited 
where  the  hills  are  not  hard  to  climb  and  the  step  is 
never  infirm. 

"Mr.  Ramla,"  he  said,  after  we  had  been  talking 
fiome  time,  "I  felt  kinder  doubtful  o'  the  moonshiners 
'bout  here  whin  they  said  they  wouldn't  go  in  the  still 
buziness  no  more.  I  thought  they'd  play  off  on  you,  an' 
I  b'lieve  they  doin'  it." 

"Do  you  think  any  of  them  have  opened  the  stills 
again?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  some  o'  'm  is  open.  I  walks  'round 
here  some  at  nights;  I  don't  sleep  so  pow'ful  good,  an' 
it  seems  kinder  restful  ter  go  up  whar  the  air  's  purest. 
I  walked  'round  the  other  night,  an'  come  purty  nigh  er 
still,  an'  it  'peared  ter  me  'twas  runnin'.  I  'spect  you'd 
better  see  'bout  it." 

I  went  that  night  and  came  back  fully  satisfied  that 
two  or  three  stills  were  running.  It  was  too  bad  after 
our  efforts.  The  next  night  I  got  McCabe  to  go  with 
me.     The  battle  must  be  fought  again. 

"We'll  be  bold  'bout  breakin'  it  up  this  time,"  Mc- 
Cabe said. 


242  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"Break  in  on  'm.  They  know  me;  the  las't  one  o' 
'm  's  'fraid  o'  me  yet." 

He  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  showed  me  his  belt  of 
pistols. 

"I  kin  show  'm  these,  an'  thar  ain't  er  man  that 
'11  fire  on  me." 

"But  your  fighting  days  are  over,"  I  said. 

"I  wouldn't  make  er  bizness  o'  fightin'  now,  but  it's 
er  good  thing  ter  know  how  ter  use  er  pistol,  an'  let 
folks  know  it.  You  take  two  o'  these,"  he  said,  "an' 
we'll  go  ill  here." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  willing,"  I  replied. 

"Thar  ain't  no  danger  with  me,"  he  said.  "I'll  go 
in  front." 

He  knocked.  No  one  responded.  He  knocked 
again.  The  lights  went  out.  As  quick  as  a  flash,  Mc- 
Cabe  was  at  one  small  window. 

"Stop,"  he  cried,  "and  open  that  door.  I  know 
what  you're  up  ter." 

"Is  it  you,  Mac?" 

"Yes,  it's  me,  an'  I  want  ter  git  in.  You  might  as 
well  lemme,  'caze  you  can't  git  out." 

The  man  opened  the  door,  and  we  entered. 

"What  does  you  mean  by  openin'  this  still  ag'in 
whin  you  pledged  yer  honor  not  ter  do  it?"  McCabe 
asked. 

The  man  laughed:  "How  many  times  have  you 
broke  your  honor?" 

"I've  never  broke  er  promise,"  McCabe  said,  "an' 
you  know  it.  I  wus  always  too  bold  ter  make  promises, 
but  ef  I  didlkep'  'm." 

"How  you  know  I'm  runnin'  this  still  ag'in.?  I 
didn't  say  it." 

"I  know  it,  'caze  I've  run  wun  myself,  an'  knows 
the  ins.  The  signs  's  clear  'nough.  Now,  you'll  not  only 
have  ter  give  up  this  bizness,  but  you'll  have  ter  give  up 
yer  home.     That's  er  purty  way  ter  treat  yer  family  ar- 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  243 

ter  they  had  er  home  the  rest  o'  thur  lives  'thout  wuk  o' 
your'n.  They  never  use-ter  be  sure  o'  wuii.  It's  er 
shame  fur  you  ter  cause  'm  ter  have  ter  give  this  up 
'caze  you  can't  keep  yer  honor." 

"I  ain't  er  goin'  ter  cause  'm  ter  give  it  up  nuther; 
don't  bother  'bout  that." 

"But  you'll  have  ter  since  you  opened  the  still." 

McCabe  stalked  into  the  next  room,  w^here  I  heard 
him  rolling  barrels.  The  moonshiner  followed  him  and 
tried  to  stop  him. 

"Stand  back,"  McCabe  said,  "stand  back." 

The  man  pulled  out  a  pistol,  but  before  he  could 
raise  it,  McCabe  caught  his  wrist  and  disarmed  him. 

"I  hate  ter  put  er  man  whar  he  can't  defend  him- 
self, but  1  can't  keep  stoppin'  ter  fool  with  you  ter- 
night." 

He  rolled  barrels  down  the  elope  towards  the  small 
stream,  and  emptied  them  in  th©  stream.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  moonshiner. 

"Ef  we  leave  you  now  you'll  skip  'fore  mornin', 
an'  you'd  jes'  as  well  come  'long  with  us.  I  ain't  no 
officer,  but  I'll  be  responsible  fur  takin'  you." 

I  went  by  his  house  and  told  his  wife  where  her 
husband  was.  Three  times  that  night  we  went  through 
the  same  scenes,  and  took  three  moonshiners  to  Walesca. 
We  telegraphed  to  Atlanta,  and  the  men  were  taken 
down  and  fined. 

While  they  were  gone,  the  wives  of  all  three  men 
came  to  us  to  plead  for  their  homea.  They  had  no  means 
of  support,  and  nowhere  to  go  if  they  should  forfeit 
them.  We  waited  until  the  men  returned,  and  this  time 
they  gave  their  oaths  not  to  run  blind  stills  any  more. 
Then  they  were  allowed  to  go  back  to  their  homes. 

This  was  the  only  serious  trouble  we  ever  had  with 
the  moonshiners  after  they  gave  their  first  pledge. 

McCabe  has  never  given  us  cause  to  doubt  his 
Christian  character.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  visit  his  home 
and  see   his  efforts   to  lead   a  different  life.     His  wife 


244  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

looks  less  careworn ;  the  distrustful  expression  has  left 
her  eyes.  His  children  look  bright  and  happy,  though 
one  son  has  been  a  trial  to  him,  beiiause  he  has  hie  fath- 
er's tendencies,  and  McCabe  thinks  some  day  he  may 
lead  the  same  desperate  life.  But  I  tell  him  that  the 
boy  has  seen  two  phases  of  his  father's  life,  and  cannot 
fail  to  choose  for  his  emulation  the  latter,  since  in  it 
the  boy  himself  has  been  happier  and  better  off. 

Bill's  junior  year  commencement  had  come,  and  he 
acquitted  himself  well  in  his  first  original  address.  His 
ambition  aspired  to  the  highest  attainments,  but  his  suc- 
cesses were  marred  now  and  then  by  a  touch  of  the  old 
crackerish  boastfulness.  It  had  almost  died,  but  like 
his  cracker  speech,  came  back  in  excitement,  or  when  he 
was  flattered  too  much. 

''They  say  I  made  a  fine  speech,  Mr.  Ramla." 

"I  am  glad  they  think  so, "  I  said;  and  he  looked 
at  me  in  astonishment.  He  had  expected  me  to  endorse 
what  "they"  said.  "You  did  make  a  creditable  ad- 
dress, Bill,  but  people  should  not  spoil  you  by  telling 
you  so  too  often." 

He  never  spoke  of  Mol  now,  and  when  I  mentioned 
her  name  once,  he  asked  me  not  to  speak  of  her  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

The  life  at  Walesca  was  greatly  changed — no  blind 
stills,  no    groceries,   no  counterfeit  money ! 

Others  than  myself  had  noticed  the  change.  Walk- 
ing along  one  day  I  passed  a  party  of  crackers  of  the  old 
regime,  grouped  fey  the  roadside,  discussing  the  situ- 
ation. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  er  change?"  I  heard  one 
question.  ^"Tain'tno  longer  who's  goin'  ter  be  Uected 
an'  who  ain't;  no  polities  in  the  matter  now;  it's  all 
school.  I  never  heard  so  much  talk  'bout  wun  place. 
I  thought  at  fust  'twas  all  talk  an'  wouldn't  'mount  ter 
nothin',  but  it's  'mounting  ter  heap  sight  more'n  I  want 
it  ter." 

"Why,  you  would  not  have  the  condition  changed, 
to  what  it  once  was,  would  you?"  I  asked  coming  up  to 
where  they  were  sitting,  three  on  a  log. 

"Certain  I  would;  er  man's  got  no  rights  now 't 
all,  an'  he  useter  have  all  he  wanted." 

"Why,  of  what  rights  have  you  been  deprived?"  I 
asked. 

"All  I  ever  had.  Take  'm  down  ef  you  want  ter 
while  I  'member  'm.  Well,  thin,  fust,  the  right  ter 
drink.  It  useter  be  that  er  man  could  go  ter  er  still  an' 
git  er  barrel  o'  liquor  ef  he  wanted  ter — not  plum'  up  ter 
the  stills — the  moonshiner  wouldn't  let  you  git  too  close 
on  ter  it  fur  fear  you'd  tell,  but  'round  'bout  in  the 
neighborhood.  'Twas  er  mighty  good  time;  an'  ef  you 
didn't  want  ter  git  direct  from  the  still,  you  could  jes' 
step  down  ter  the  turn  o'  the  road  an'  buy  from  er  gro- 
cer, an'  he  was  as  jolly  as  er  coon.  'Twas  er  mighty 
good  time.     Now,    stills  er   all  gone,  'cept  government 

245 


246  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

wun8,  an'  they  can't  be  nigh  the  school.  The  school's  in 
the  way  o'  ever' thing?  Nothin'  now  ter  put  er  good 
taste  in  yer  mouth,  noth'n  ter  make  you  feel  good;  you 
never  forgit  yer  enemies;  it's  er  powerful  tryin'  time 
ter  er  man's  speerits.  Well,  thin,  second:  it  useter  be 
that  a  man  could  chaw's  much  t'bacco  as  he  felt  like, 
an'^nothin'  warn't  said  'bout  it;  he  could  chaw  an'  chaw 
an'  chaw  till  his  jaws  would  work  whin  thar  warn't  no 
t'bacco  in  'm."  He  illustrated  the  process  of  chewing 
here  by  working  his  jaws  in  a  twisted  up  and  down  mo- 
tion that  was  apt.  "You  set  'round  the  fire  in  winter 
an'  thought  'bout  the  time  'fore  you  wus  married  whin 
you  wus  bashful-like,  an'  the  gal  wus  kinder  so,  too,  an' 
she'd  set  on  one  side  o'  the  chimn3y,  an'  you  on  the 
tother,  an'  you'd  chaw  an'  she'd  dip,  an'  mebbe  not  say 
nothin'  fur  er  hour.  An'  sometimes  you'd  set  'round 
the  fire  an'  tell  yarns  an'  make  the  old  'oman  an'  chill- 
uns  laff ;  an'  ever'  las'  child  'cept  the  gals  'd  be  tryin' 
ter  chaw  'fore  they  wus  three  foot  high,  an'  some  o'  'm 
'd  fall  off  the  shuck-pile  sick.  'Twas  er  mighty  good 
time — gone  now.  Thar  ain't  no  peace  in  chawin'  at  my 
house  now  less'n  whin  the  chillun's  at  school.  They 
come  in  an'  say,  'Dad,  don't  chaw;  'Fessor  says  'tain't 
elegant;  he  won't  let  us  do  it,  an'  'tain't  right  fur  you 
ter.'  An'  they  won't  listen  ter  my  tales.  I  love  ter  tell 
tales  settin'  'round  the  fire  like  we  useter 'fore  they  got 
ter  studyin' ;  it's  powerful  tryin'  ter  er  man's  speerits. 
Well,  thin,  third:  it  useter  be  that  er  man  could  have 
what  he  w^anted  in  his  own  house,  jes'  comfortable  fur- 
niture, an'  now  the  gals  's  got  more  funny  notions  stuck 
'round,  'caze  it's  nice  an'  r'fined.'  I  jes'  stan'  olf  an' 
lafp  at  the  things  sometimes  whin  I  don't  throw  'm  in  the 
fire.  An'  they's  got  cushions  in  the  cheers,  what  make 
you  feel  like  you  sittin'  on  air,  an'  mought  tall  enny 
time.  An'  thin  thar  was  wunst  whin  er  man  could  have 
things  ter  eat  jes'  like  he  wanted,  cabbage  an'  all  thim 
good  things  fur  supper;  but  now  the  chilluns  say  'taint 
healthy;    phislology — what's  it? — says   'taint  healthy; 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  247 

it  makes  folks'  brain  so  it  won't  work.  An'  I  jes'  ax 
'm  how  much  longer  they  been  livin'  than  me,  an'  how 
much  more  thur  brains  is  wuked.  An'  then  it  useter 
wus  that  er  man  could  wear  what  he  wanted  ter,  but 
now  it's  put  on  your  best  all  the  time.  Mighty  good 
time  the  old  time  wus ;  powerful  tryin'  on  the  speerit 
now.  Well,  thin,  third,  it  wus  so  wunst  that  er  man 
could  boss  his  own  family  like  he  pleased,  an'  set  back 
an'  rest  an'  take  his  ease,  leanin'  back  in  his  chair  an' 
smokin',  or  doin'  whatever  suited  his  fancy,  an'  send 
the  old  'oman  out  in  the  field  ter  plow  the  steer,  an'  the 
chillun  round  ter  tend  ter  things — 'warn't  worth  while 
ter  git  out  o'  yer  cheer  ter  have  ever'thing  goin'  as 
smooth  as  glass.  'Twas  er  mighty  good  time;  clear 
gone  now.  All  the  right  er  man's  got  these  days  is  ter 
wuk  and  edicate  his  chilluns.  I  can't  say  whether  my 
chilluns  mus'  wuk;  you  folks  done  'cided  'thoutaskin' 
me  whether  I  like  it  er  no  that  they  mus'  go  ter  school. 
It's  er  sin  fur  er  man  ter  keep  his  chillun,  what  wus 
give  him  ter  do  what  he  wants  with,  out'n  school.  An' 
I  can't  make  the  old  'oman  wuk  like  she  useter,  be- 
cause it's  heathen-like  fur  wimmin  folks  ter  wuk,  like 
the  Lord  didn't  make  man  fur  ter  boss.  This  is  er  pow- 
erful tryin'  time  on  er  man's  speerits.  It  'prises  me 
like  ter  think  that  mebbe  arter  er  while  they'll  change 
the  water  an'  air." 

"That  'bout  takes  in  ever'thing.  Uncle  Jake,"  an- 
other said.  "The  Good  Book  sed  er  lot  o'  trouble  'd 
come  'fore  the  end  o'  the  world.  Reckin  it's  no  more'n 
we  could  look  fur.  It's  hard  sure  fur  er  man  ter  be 
'pressed  like  er  man  warn't  free;  but  reckin  we  can't 
change  the  matter  now.  These  folks  wus  cunnin' ; 
they  got  thur  way  'fore  we  know'd  it,  but  it's  too  late 
ter  git  it  back  on  'm  now." 

Did  you  ever  pass  a  pond  and  hear  the  croaking  of 
the  frogs?  They  croak  whether  the  pond  is  high  or 
low,  but  I  believe  they  croak  loudest  when  the  pond  is 
high.  Frogs  are  not  the  only  creatures  with  such 
habits. 


248  DOWN   AMONG   THE  CRACKERS 

It  was  best  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  these  men,, 
but  to  carry  on  the  work  regardless  of  them.  Their  day- 
will  pass.     Another  generation  will  feel  different. 

Not  long  after  this  I  spent  an  evening  with  my- 
friend.  After  our  usual  talk  about  school  matters,  we 
had  become  silent,  and  I   sat  meditating  for  some  time. 

**0f  what  are  you  thinking  so  earnestly?"  my 
friend  asked.  "I  have  watched  you  for  the  past  half 
ho'jr  closely,  and  not  a  muscle  has  moved,  except  the 
muscles  of  the  face,  and  those  have  betrayed  anxious 
thought.  I  feel  better  over  the  condition  of  the  people, 
and  so  ought  you.  But  you  are  a  miserable  man,  al- 
ways thinking  of  some  evil,  and  never  satisfied  with  the 
good.     Be  grateful  once." 

*'I  am  always  grateful,  but  I  am  never  satisfied.  I 
pity  the  soul  that  is  satisfied;  it  will  never  progress. 
Dissatisfaction  makes  the  difi*erence  between  man  and 
other  animals.  You  are  right;  I  have  been  thinking  very 
earnestly  of  something  that  I  will  not  say  is  an  evil,  but 
that  may  become  one ;  such,  at  least,  has  been  the  his- 
tory of  similar  lawless  organizations.  Whether  this  will 
be  an  exception  or  not,  I  cannot  tell.  I  speak  of  the 
whitecap  organization,  which,  as  you  know,  has  of  late 
been  growing  rapidly  in  this  section  of  Georgia.  The 
society  may  be  good, and  some  of  the  best  men  in  the  land 
are  said  to  belong  to  it,  but  already  many  of  its  acts 
have  been  evil,  and  they  will  become  still  more  so  if,  as 
I  said,  the  oganization  follows  the  rule  of  things  that 
digress  from  law." 

"Possibly  the  matter  ought  to  be  given  more 
thought,"  said  my  friend,  '*but  it  is  hardly  wuse  for  us 
to  trouble  about  it.  The  whitecape.  have  never  inter- 
fered with  the  school,  and  probably  never  will.  There 
are  so  many  things  that  do  directly  affect  it  that  we 
should  give  all  our  thought  to  them." 

**I  am  not  sure  that  this  matter  will  never  affect  the 
school,  or  that  we  should  not  consider  it  now.  The  man 
who  watched  me  for  so   long  was,  I  feel  sure,  a  white- 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  249> 

cap,  unless,  indeed,  he  was  employed  by  the  man  who 
died  and  left  the  moonshiners  their  homes." 

"Have  you  seen  your  'apparition'  since  the  death 
of  that  man?" 

''No,  but  he  may  want  to  leave  the  impression  upon 
me  that  the  owner  of  the  stills  was  the  man." 

*'I  would  not  worry  about  the  matter.  The  man 
was  probably  a  confederate  of  the  still-owner  or  a 
moonshiner  acting  independently." 

"If  he  was  a  confederate,  why  has  he  not  opposed 
the  action  we  have  taken  under  the  still-owner's  will?" 

"Oh,  well,  maybe  he  is  a  whitecap,  and  if  he  is, 
that  can  mean  no  harm  to  you." 

"I  do  not  know  what  it  may  mean,"  I  said.  "But 
I  do  know  that  the  whitecaps  are  getting  too  active." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A  few  days  after  our  talk  about  the  whitecaps  my 
friend  told  me  that  Callaway  had  caused  some  trouble. 
There  was  a  boy  in  school  who  was  not  bright,  and 
Callaway  had  worried  him  greatly.  He  told  him  that 
whitecaps  punished  boys  who  did  not  make  a  good 
stand  in  their  classes,  and  the  boy  had  been  afraid  to  be 
out  at  night.  The  following  day  the  lad  was  detained 
in  town  on  business,  and  was  late  getting  home.  Calla- 
way knew  it,  and  went  ahead  of  him  to  frighten  him. 
He  wore  a  costume  similar  to  that  of  the  whitecaps,  and 
frightened  the  boy  very  much.  The  next  day  the  other 
boys  told  him  that  Callaway  had  fooled  him.  He  was 
very  angry  and  used  some  strong  language  to  Callaway. 
Callaway  then  grew  very  angry  also,  and  said  that  the 
whitecaps  really  should  get  after  the  boy. 

I  asked  my  friend  what  he  would  do  about  it.  He 
said  if  Callaway  were  not  going  to  graduate  that  year 
he  would  expel  him,  but  that,  after  his  long  and  patient 
efforts  with  him,  he  disliked  to  send  him  into  life  with- 
out a  single  honor. 

He  was  given  military  punishment,  and  allowed  to 
stay  and  receive  his  diploma.  He  had  not  studied  well, 
but  managed  to  get  through. 

"Mr.  Callaway,  what  do  you  expect  to  do?"  I 
asked,  when  he  was  leaving  school,  after  his  gradua- 
tion. 

**I  expect  to  study  medicine,  and  when  I  have  com- 
pleted the  course  and  established  a  good  practice,  to 
marry  and  live  a  quiet,  useful  life." 

**I  hope  you  may,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  you  do  not  believe  I  will,  Mr.  Ramla.  You 
have  never  had  any  confidence  in  me." 

250 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  261 

"I  have  always  had  the  confidence  that  you  merited. 
A  man  himself  is  responsible  for  the  confidence  people 
have  in  him,"  I  replied;  but  I  felt  a  little  guilty. 

He  went  to  a  medical  college  in  Atlanta  and  did  as 
he  had  done  at  Walesca,  dragged  along  with  but  little 
effort  to  attain  real  success.  I  was  in  Atlanta  once 
when  he  was  there,  and  met  the  proctor  of  the  medical 
college. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  to  me,  *'you  have  sent  us  a 
worthless  student  from  Walesca.  He  does  not  do  your 
college  justice  if  it  really  has  the  merit  I  have  always 
heard  awarded  it.  Callaway  is  not  only  not  a  good  stu- 
dent, but  a  disreputable  character." 

"What  has  he  been  doing?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  !  drinking  and  giving  general  trouble.  He  has 
no  honor." 

He  soon  left  Atlanta  without  graduating,  having  be- 
come so  dissipated  in  the  city,  where  he  was  exposed  to 
constant  temptation,  that  he  would  not  attend  his  lec- 
tures. He  began  clerking  in  a  store  in  Rome,  Georgia, 
and  for  a  while  did  wf^ll,  and  made  friends. 

One  Sunday  my  friend  was  in  Rome,  when  he  met 
Callaway,  who  had  been  drinking.  My  friend  begged 
him  to  go  to  his  boarding-house  and  stay  until  he  was 
himself.  But  he  seemed  reckless  and  would  not  go. 
That  afternoon  a  young  boy,  the  son  of  the  gentleman 
my  friend  was  visiting,  said:  "I  never  saw  anybody  so 
reckless  as  that  young  fellow,  Callaway,  who  has  been 
clerking  here  for  a  month.  He  swears  he's  going  to  kill 
somebody  to-day ;  I  heard  him  say  so,  and  he  is  carry- 
ing a  pistol." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  he  came  in,  very  excited  and 
pale,  and  said:  "Callaway's  done  what  he  threatened. 
I  was  down  the  street  a  while  ago,  and  he  went  up  to  the 
livery  stable  for  a  horse  and  buggy.  The  owner,  knowing 
he  had  been  drinking,  refused  to  let  him  have  the  turn- 
out. Callaway  then  went  to  the  stable,  and,  fearing 
trouble,  I  followed.     When  the  man  refused  him  again, 


262  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

he  became  livid  with  fury,  and  made  terrible  threats. 
Finally,  the  proprietor  of  the  livery  stable  went  into  his 
oflfice,  and  Callaway  got  the  horse  and  buggy  himself, 
and  was  sitting  in  it  ready  to  drive,  when  a  clerk  came 
in.  'You  cannot  have  that  turnout,  Mr.  Callaway.' 
*So  your  proprietor  said,  but  I've  got  it.'  'But  you  can- 
not keep  it,  Mr.  Callaway,'  he  said  taking  the  horse's 
rein.  'I  will  show  you  about  that,'  Callaway  replied, 
and  tried  to  drive  otf .  The  clerk  held  tightly  to  the  rein, 
and  the  horse  reared  under  the  restraint  and  the  fierce 
lashing  that  Callaway  w^as  giving  him.  'Let  go  that 
bridle,'  Callaway  said,  'I'll  show  you  who  is  the  better 
man,'  and  he  struck  the  clerk  with  the  whip.  The  clerk 
made  an  effort  to  catch  the  whip  with  his  left  hand,, 
holding  the  horse  with  the  right.  Callaway  stood 
in  the  buggy,  the  horse  rearing  as  it  was,  took  deliberate 
aim  and  shot  the  clerk  twice,  saying,  'I  will  teach  you 
not  to  fool  with  me;  I'm  a  desperate  man.'  The  clerk 
staggered,  then  fell  in  front  of  the  horse.  Callaway  cut 
the  frightened  animal  a  fearful  blow,  and  drove  over  the 
dying  body  of  the  brave  young  clerk.  I  screamed  for 
help  and  tried  to  catch  the  horse's  rein,  but  Callaway 
aimed  at  me  with  the  pistol,  and  said,  'It's  no  more  to 
kill  two  men  than  one,'  and  I  dropped  my  hand,  too 
frightened  to  attempt  further  to  stop  him.  He  drove 
madly  into  the  street,  and  I  went  to  the  dying  man. 
'He  has  killed  me,'  he  said;  'bring  him  to  justice,  that 
he  may  not  kill  another  man.'  He  died  with  these 
words  upon  his  lips." 

"Of  course  the  officers  have  gone  to  arrest  Calla- 
way?" my  friend  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  young  man  replied,  "but  there  are 
men  collecting  now  who  will  be  as  likely  to  find  him  as 
the  officers,  and  they  will  not  deal  so  mercifully  with 
him." 

Terrible  thought !  For  four  years  my  friend  had 
labored  to  make  a  man  of  this  boy,  and  this  was  the  end. 
He  went  to  the  men  who  were  banding  themselves  for  a 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  2oB 

lawless  mob,  and  begged  that  they  leave  Callaway  to  the 
law.  It  was  useless  to  ask  it;  they  were  infuriated,  and 
not  without  reason.  All  night  the  two  parties  searched 
for  him,  but  he  was  not  found.  The  governor  offered  a 
hundred  dollars  reward  for  his  capture.  It  was  weeks 
before  he  was  found.  At  last  in  an  old  barn  the  sheriff 
found  him  a  hundred  miles  from  the  scene  of  the  mur- 
der, and  for  protection  he  was  taken  to  Atlanta. 

My  friend  went  to  see  him.  He  seemed  callous. 
Always  before,  no  matter  what  the  offence,  he  had  shown 
€ome  feeling.  Now  he  seemed  perfectly  unconcerned, 
not  caring  for  what  happened  nor  for  what  should  come. 
I  pitied  his  sister,  Maggie,  and  wrote  to  her.  Her  reply 
w^as  pitiful  indeed.  It  was  so  distressful  and  discon- 
nected that  I  feared  for  the  young  girl's  reason.  She 
begged  me  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  save  her  brother 
from  the  worst  fate. 

Katherine  was  much  exercised  for  her  friend.  She 
asked  to  go  and  stay  with  her  during  the  trying  time, 
and  I  consented.  Bill  was  distressed:  ''Callaway  was 
my  enemy  from  the  very  first,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling 
for  him  now." 

When  Bill  had  declared  that  he  did  not  love  Mol 
any  longer  I  had  thought  that  he  cared  for  Callaway's 
sister.  If  this  were  so  he  should  now  manifest  it.  He 
did  not  do  so,  however,  and  was  almost  angry  with  me 
for  allowing  Katherine  to  go  and  stay  with  her. 

*'It  will  be  so  trying  for  Miss  Katherine,"   he  said. 

I  was  surprised,  and  told  him  what  I  thought. 

"I  care  for  Miss  Maggie  Callaway!  I  could  not 
think  of  such  a  thing,  on  account  of  her  brother.  She 
is  a  fine  girl,  and  I  have  always  admired  her  but  I  do 
not  care  for  her  in  the  least." 

Before  Callaway's  trial  began,  I  met  one  of  the  still- 
keepers  that  had  kept  his  pledge. 

*'See  here,  mister,  is  Callaway  killed  a  man  sure 
''nough?" 

"Yes,"  T  said,  "he  really  has." 


254  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

*'Well,  'tain't  no  'eprise  ter  me;  It's  jes'  what  I 
'spected  ter  come  ter  pass,  only  I  thought  mebbe  how 
it'd  be  Callaway  that  'd  be  kilt  instid  o'  hlskillin'  some 
other  man.  He  allurs  wus  er  coward,  but  he  slung  er 
pistol  round  powerful  whin  he  wus  drunk,  an'  I  reckon 
that's  the  way  't  wus.  I  never  could  see  how  you  an' 
'Fessor  could  be  fooled  so  in  that  chap;  he  wus  the 
meanes'  feller  that  ever  come  along  the  school,  an'  yit  it 
seemed  as  ef  'Fessor  thought  the  sun  riz  an'  set  in  that 
boy,  the  things  he  done  fur  him.  You  dunno  'bout  that 
feller  an'  Lewis,  what  wus  another  bad  wun ;  they 
use  ter  come  ter  the  still  at  night,  an'  they'd  drink  'til 
they'd  'gin  ter  feel  queer,  an'  thin  they'd  say  better 
stop,  they  reckin  as  how  you'd  find  it  out  on  'm  ef  they 
didn't;  an'  they'd  have  their  bottles  filled  ter  take  ter 
the  boys  an'  ter  las'  'm  the  next  day.  They  wus  terrible 
ohaps,  they  wus." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

The  trial  came.  Callaway  was  taken  to  Rome. 
Public  Bcntiment  was  still  so  bitter  against  him  that  he 
had  to  be  kept  under  close  guard  for  his  protection. 
The  Jail  might  have  been  left  open,  and  he  would 
not  have  thought  of  escape ;  he  wanted  the  protection  of 
the  law. 

The  trial  was  short.  There  was  abundant  testi- 
mony against  Callaway,  and  scarcely  any  in  his  favor. 
He  testified  in  his  own  behalf,  going  through  with  the 
whole  of  the  circumstances  of  the  killing  in  a  tragic 
manner,  and  closed  by  saying : 

"He  insulted  me,  and  I  shot  him;  yes,  shot  him 
down — a  thing  any  man  will  do  when  he's  insulted." 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  court  room  when  he  ut- 
tered the  words,  and  sat  down  with  a  deadly  pallor  on 
his  cheeks  and  a  forced  smile  on  his  lips. 

His  family  awaited  the  verdict  in  mental  agony  of 
fiuspense.  I  would  not  allow  Katherine  to  attend  the 
trial,  but  I  sat  by  Maggie  to  comfort  her  as  I  might. 

The  jury  was  not  long  out.  They  came  filing  in  in 
solemn  procession,  and  when  the  foreman  was  asked  for 
the  verdict  it  was  "Guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
with  a  recommendation  to  mercy  because  of  the  prison- 
er's youth." 

It  was  milder  than  any  one  expected,  but  of  course 
the  family  had  hoped.  Maggie,  unnerved  by  all  that 
had  passed,  uttered  a  piercing  shriek.  Gray-haired  men 
wept.  I  do  not  think  there  was  a  dry  eye  in  the  court 
room  except  the  prisoner's.  He  looked  like  marble,  im- 
mobile and  unfeeling.  He  received  his  sentence  in  the 
same  manner,  apparently  not  even   hearing    what   the 

255 


256  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

judge  said  when  he  sentenced  him  to  penal  service  for 
life. 

Poor  Maggie!  She  could  scarcely  walk  from 
the  court  room,  and  when  we  had  gone  with  her  and  her 
mother  to  the  house  where  they  were  staying,  she  threw 
her  arms  about  Katherine,  and  with  another  piercing 
scream,  fainted.  Katherine  was  never  stronger.  She 
tried  to  comfort  as  she  could,  her  troubled  friend, 
but  Maggie  was  never  herself  again.  Proud,  ambitious, 
sensitive,  this  blow  was  too  great  for  her  strength. 
After  a  long  spell  of  brain  fever,  she  passed  from  life 
and  its  woes.  Poor  life!  So  marred,  so  burdened,  by 
the  sins  of  others !  But  the  world's  troubles  will  never 
cast  gloom  over  it  more. 

Mrs.  Callaway  expected  to  take  leave  of  her  son  be- 
fore he  should  be  taken  to  another  sphere  of  existence, 
but  the  people  were  so  incensed  that  the  sentence 
had  not  been  death,  that  it  was  not  safe  for  Callaway  to 
be  kept  a  moment  over  the  necessary  time.  They  hur- 
ried him  off  on  the  next  train;  and  his  mother  did 
not  even  know  when  he  left.  In  fifteen  minutes  after 
the  sentence  the  prisoner  was  on  his  way  to  the  peniten- 
tiary. They  sent  him  to  the  lumber  yards.  He  had 
never  been  a  strong  boy,  and  they  gave  him  the  light 
work  of  marking  lumber. 

I  visited  him  soon  after  he  was  taken  to  the  lumber 
yards  and  asked  permission  to  talk  to  him,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  guard,  of  course. 

''My  dear  young  friend — "  I  said;  but  he  stopped 
me  before  I  could  say  more. 

"If  you  had  only  called  me  that  and  shown  some 
confidence  in  me  before!" 

"Stop,  Callaway,"  I  in  turn  interrupted.  "I  may 
not  have  called  you  'dear  young  friend,'  nor  shown  very 
much  confidence  in  you,  but  there  were  others  who  did. 
My  friend,  the  president  of  your  college,  showed  all  the 
confidence  in  you  that  one  man  can  expect  from  another, 
and   gave   you   more    affection  than  most  boys  receive 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKEKS  257 

at  home.  I  may  have  been  derelict  in  duty  towards 
jou,  but  he  was  not." 

"That  is  true,  but  I  wanted  you  to  care  for  me,  too. 
Many  a  time  I  wished  for  your  confidence  and  love ; 
I  was  jealous  of  Bill  and  others,  but  at  the  same  time  I 
knew  that  the  fault  was  mine ;  I  never  felt  more  forcibly 
any  saying  than  yours,  that  a  man  inspires  the  confi- 
dence he  receives  and  gets  all  he  merits.  But  this 
I  will  tell  you  :  you  did  more  than  your  duty  by  me.- 
If  I  had  but  listened  to  the  teachings  of  the  Profess- 
or and  yourself  I  should  now  be  free  and  happy.  But  I 
am  bound  forever — a  young  man  without  a  hope,  with- 
out a  friend,  without  a  home,  without  a  name,  and  no  ef- 
fort, no  labor,  can  bring  them  to  me  again.  Oh !  oh !  oh! 
my  brain  will  soon  give  way,  and  I  shall  be  a  life  with- 
out a  mind!" 

*'You  need  your  reason  more  than  ever  now,"  I 
€aid;  "do  not  break  down;  do  not  let  it  slip  from  you;" 
and  I  tried  to  explain  my  meaning  to  him ;  but  it  was  al- 
most useless  then. 

"Callaway,"  I  said,  "it  is  too  late  for  reproaches 
now;  but  if  you  will  do  your  best  in  the  future,  you  may 
yet  find  peace." 

"I  loved  the  man  I  killed,"  he  went  on,  "though  I 
had  known  him  but  a  short  while,  and  if  I  had  been  my- 
self, bad  as  my  real  self  is,  I  would  not  have  committed 
the  deed ;  but  I  was  maddened  with  liquor.  And,  do 
you  know,  I  drank  so  constantly  for  years  that  now  my 
system  demands  alcohol,  until  I  am  sometimes  almost 
wild  without  it.  You  did  not  know  it,  Mr.  Ramla,  but 
I  drank  all  the  time  I  was  at  Walesca." 

"No,  I  did  not  know  it  then,  but  I  learned  it  before 
your  trial;"  and  I  told  him  what  the  moonshiner  had 
said. 

"Yes,  and  he  might  have  told  you  more.  After  the 
distilleries  were  closed,  I  still  got  whiskey.  The  moon- 
shiners would  always  have  a  little,  though  they  were 
afraid  to  have  much.      The  last  time  that  I  went  to  the 


258  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

stills,  though,  they  told  me  they  were  really  going 
to  give  up  the  busineBS  altogether.  It  cannot  matter 
much  now,  Mr.  Ramla,  what  confessions  I  make.  The 
worst  cannot  bring  me  lower  than  I  am.  I  peddled 
whiskey  all  the  time  among  the  boys  while  I  was  at 
school.  I  gambled,  too.  Two  or  three  times  I  won  all 
a  young  man  had,  and  he  was  obliged  to  stop  school  on 
account  of  it.  Sometimes  I  would  feel  sorry  for  him, 
and  lend  him  a  small  amount  to  start  with,  and  try 
to  win  his  money  back.  It  was  shameful ;  I  regret  noth- 
ing more  in  all  the  black  past  than  depriving  two  or 
three  young  men  of  a  year's  advantages  in  school." 

"Another  thing  I  will  tell  you  :  I  was  dishonest  in 
other  ways  than  gambling.  Do  you  remember  having 
charge  of  the  school  while  Professor  was  ill  at  your 
home?  It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  term,  and  I 
would  not  enter  for  some  time  after  I  heard  you  were 
acting  as  president.  I  feared  you  would  deal  more 
harshly  with  me  than  the  president.  I  did  not  know 
where  Professor  was,  but  I  knew  he  was  sick  somewhere, 
and  Lewis  and  I  were  hard  up  for  money,  and  we  went  to 
the  town  in  which  you  live  to  attempt  what  I  had  never 
attempted  before — burglary.  We  got  into  one  house 
and  took  from  a  man's  pocket  a  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars, besides  other  things.  Your  house  was  the  next 
we  entered,  and  the  room  in  which  Professor  lay 
ill  was  the  first  we  came  to.  We  did  not  know  it  was 
Tour  house,  or  we  should  not  have  entered  it.  We  used 
gas  upon  the  sleeper.  I  leaned  over  the  bed  and  recog- 
nized the  features.  The  awfulness  of  what  we  were 
doing  almost  overpowered  me,  and  I  told  Lewis  so,  but 
he  was  always  more  hard-hearted  than  I,  and  he  laughed 
at  me  and  seemed  disgusted.  When  Professor  was  un- 
der the  influence  of  the  gas  I  felt  very  anxious ;  I  knew 
he  must  be  very  weak,  and  was  fearful  he  would  not  re- 
cover from  the  effects  of  it.  1  never  loved  him  so  much, 
it  seemed  to  me,  and  never  felt  so  like  a  criminal.  If 
he  had   died,  I  think  I  would  have  given  myself  up  to 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CllACKERS  259 

justice.  Lewis  did  most  of  the  stealing  that  night, 
though  I  fumbled  about  the  room  and  pretended.  The 
only  thing  I  got  was  your  watch,  and  I  took  that  only 
because  I  knew  Lewis  was  a  desperate  fellow,  and  if  he 
suspected  me  of  not  trying  to  rob  he  might  fear  that  I 
would  betray  him  and  take  my  life.  When  we  were 
ready  to  go  he  said  'Come,'  but  I  stayed  behind  a  mo- 
ment to  see  if  Professor  was  breathing.  I  felt  so  re- 
morseful as  I  looked  at  him,  and  thought  of  all  he  had 
done  for  me  and  my  evil  deed  to  him,  that  1  determined 
I  would  never  again  lead  an  evil  life.  But  I  soon 
changed  my  determination  and  continued  to  live  in  the 
game  old  way. 

"Next  day  Lewis  asked  me  what  I  had  taken  from 
your  house,  and  I  told  him  your  watch.  'Let's  sell  it; 
we  can't  keep  it  and  I  don't  want  it  anyway.'  'Lewis,' 
I  said,  'I  want  it,  and  if  you  will  take  my  share  of  the 
money  we  got  last  night  and  leave  me  the  watch,  I'll 
say  quite.'  He  did  so,  and  I  expected  to  give  you  the 
watch  back  some  time,  but  I  never  could  find  the  cour- 
age ;  and  once,  when  Lewis  and  I  were  playing  cards, 
and  I  had  lost  ail  my  money,  I  bet  the  watch  and  he  won 
it.  'Now,  look  here,  Lewis,'  I  said,  'that  watch  must 
be  an  old  family  piece  of  Mr.  Ramla's,  and  he  must 
have  it  some  day  ;  I  would  not  sell  it  for  anything.'  He 
said,  'I  would,  if  I  could  get  enough  for  it.'  'No,  you 
will  not, '  I  said ;  'there  are  the  authorities,  and  I  tell 
you  not  to  sell  that  watch  until  I  have  a  chance  to  win 
it  back.'  He  promised  that  he  would  not,  but  before  1 
•Duld  get  a  chance  you  found  the  watch  in  Lewis'  trunk. 
I  was  to  win  it  with  some  of  the  money  he  stole  from 
the  boy  Simpson.  Yes,  I  was  in  that  affair,  too,  and 
Lewis  certainly  did  a  noble  thing  then.  He  took  all  the 
blame  and  let  me  go.  Lewis  broke  the  window  and  got 
in  and  I  watched  outside.  Lewis  was  to  go  to  New 
York  the  next  morning  and  I  was  to  let  him  have  my 
share  of  the  money  for  the  watch.  You  remember  the 
morning  Lewis  was    expelled.?     I  shall   never  forget  it. 


^60  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

You  looked  at  me  and  I  grew  pale  as  death.  I  f^lt  as  if 
you  could  read  my  heart.  No  wonder  that  I  am  here.  My 
life  was  bad  enough  even  if  that  last  great  crime. had  not 
been  committed.  One  evil  went  on  at  Walesca,  though, 
that  I  was  not  connected  with,  and  that  was  the  cir- 
culation of  counterfeit  money.  I  was  afraid  to  handle 
it.  Lewis  said  I  was  a  coward,  and  I  was  ;  but  I  wish  I 
had  been  more  cowardly  about  crime." 

The  guard  announced  then  that  I  could  not  speak 
to  No.  —  any  longer  that  day,  but  that  I  could  do  so  on 
the  morrow. 

Callaway  bade  me  good-bye  and  said  :  "There  are 
some  other  things  I  want  to  confess  to  you." 

I  went  the  next  day  and  Callaway  continued  his 
«tory. 

*'You  thought  I  knew  the  stranger  w^ho  watched 
you  so  long;  I  did  not  know  him.  I  only  knew  he  was 
watching  you." 

*'Yes,  I  overheard  you  say  so  once  when  Bill  and  I 
were  on  the  mountain,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  the  time.  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  that  Lewis  and  I  were  the  men  who  hunted  you 
■down  and  shot  at  you,  and  when  the  trial  came  and 
there  was  not  sufficient  evidence  against  me,  I  felt 
almost  like  confessing  my  guilt;  but  the  feeling  of 
triumph  over  you  was  too  great.  I  hated  you  because 
you  interfered  between  Mol  and  me.  My  course  in  re- 
gard to  her  was  one  of  the  strangest  things  in  my  life. 
When  I  went  to  the  cracker  party  at  Bill's  house  I  had 
no  thought  except  to  amuse  myself  by  guying  the  crack- 
ers. I  had  never  seen  Mol  Smith  before,  and  knew 
nothing  of  her  relation  to  Bill,  but  I  soon  found  from 
his  actions  she  was  his  sweetheart,  and  it  then  became 
my  pleasure  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  win  her  from  him. 
Mollie  was  not  an  attractive  girl  to  me,  and  it  was  a 
great  bore  to  be  with  her ;  but  I  was  determined  not  to 
allow  a  cracker  boy  to  hold  any  girl  when  I  chose  to 
win   her  from   him.     I   have  always   been   jealous  and 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  261 

spiteful,  and  though  I  never  loved  Mol,  I  was  jealous  of 
her  and  spiteful  toward  Bill.  But  I  do  not  think  she 
ever  cared  in  the  least  for  me.  All  that  I  told  you  about 
hearing  from  her  was  untrue.  I  never  heard  a  word 
from  her.  I  saw  her  once  when  she  vv^as  home  during 
her  mother's  illness,  but  she  w^ould  tell  me  no  more  than 
she  had  already  told  you.  I  do  not  know  to  this  day 
where  she  is.  As  long  as  Bill  cared  for  her  I  wanted 
you  all  to  believe  that  she  would  marry  me,  and  when 
he  declared  that  his  love  for  her  had  died  out,  I  cared 
nothing  further  about  the  matter ;  but  I  was  obliged  ta 
keep  up  the  impression  that  I  wanted  to  marry  Molli© 
Smith  to  prevent  your  discovering  my  motives.  The 
letter  I  showed  you  I  wrote  myself.  Miss  Mollie  was  a 
good  girl.  I  tried  twice  in  every  way  possible  to  get 
her  to  run  off  with  me.  The  second  time  she  left  home, 
and  I  flattered  myself  it  was  because  she  was  afraid  I 
might  persuade  her  to  marry  me  some  day,  and  was 
fearful  to  trust  herself  with  me,  but  I  don't  think  ea 
now.  I  am  sure  she  has  never  ceased  to  care  for  Bill. 
Tell  Bill  what  I  have  told  you,  and  if  Miss  Mollie  ever 
goes  home  again  tell  her.  I  would  like  Bill  to  come  to 
see  me  at  some  time  if  he  will.  He  would  be  kind  to  da 
80,  for  I  have  treated   him  shamefully." 

I  tried  to  talk  to  Callaw^ay  about  his  final  fate,  but 
he  would  not  listen. 

**At  some  other  time  come,  and  I  will  talk  to  you 
about  that;"  and  I  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

The  year  that  Callaway  committed  his  awful  crime, 
Bill  graduated.  It  was  a  momentous  period  of  his  life. 
There  are  two  days  that  a  man  never  forgets — his  grad- 
uation day  and  his  wedding  day.  On  his  gradua- 
tion day  a  man  is  proud  of  himself;  on  his  wedding  day 
he  is  proud  of  his  bride. 

Bill  was  not  a  first-honor  boy.  He  would  have 
been,  but  that  his  health  gave  way  from  hard  study  cou- 
pled with  hard  work  at  home,  and  he  was  obliged  to  lose 
much  time  from  school.  It  was  a  great  disappointment 
to  him,  but  it  was  just  as  well  as  it  was.  So  many  first- 
honor  men  are  lauded  to  the  skies,  and  start  in  life  feel- 
ing that  their  success  everywhere  must  be  as  great  as  it 
was  at  school,  and  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  fail. 
It  is  well  for  people  to  be  disappointed  sometimes.  Bill 
made  an  excellent  address.  His  subject  was,  "The  Peo- 
ple," and  the  peroration  was  as  follows: 

"You  have  heard  of  the  leaders  of  men.  What  of 
those  who  follow?  I  have  read  of  sixteen  great  battles 
that  have  decided  the  fate  of  nations,  of  sixteen  great 
generals  who  planned  them,  to  whom  all  the  honor  of 
victory  was  ascribed,  and  to  whom  the  world  bows  in 
homage.  The  battalions  that  went  down  into  the  fight 
were  composed  of  the  common  people.  Kingdoms  and. 
republics  have  risen  in  power,  and  have  established 
themselves  on  the  earth,  and  the  annals  of  history  have 
been  searched  for  the  register  of  the  people  who  estab- 
lished them;  but  it  is  not  to  be  found.  But  there  is  a 
republic  of  'the  common  people,'  whose  power  is  felt 
more  than  that  of  all  other  republics  and  all  empires, 
whose  strength  is  greater  than  that  of  the  United  States, 

262 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  2fi3 

and  of  Britain  and  of  Germany  combined.  When  it 
was  founded,  the  leaders  of  men  refused  to  hold  citizen- 
ship, and  even  tried  to  overthrow  it.  They  refused  to 
recognize  itb  founder,  but  the  common  people  heard  him 
gladly.  And  at  the  last,  when  this  great  commonwealth 
shall  have  become  too  holy  for  life  among  the  nations  of 
the  earth,  it  shall  have  everlasting  life  as  the  final  Re- 
public of  God." 

I  looked  around  while  Bill  was  speaking,  and  Mol 
was  there  listening,  more  eagerly  than  anyone  else. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  and  sparkling  with  admiration. 
She  leaned  forward  with  nervous  movement,  and  I  felt 
eure  she  must  care  for  Bill  still. 

A3  soon  as  the  exercises  were  over  I  went  down  to 
speak  to  Mol,  but  she  had  gone. 

When  Bill  sat  down,  the  people  applauded  tremen- 
dously. But  the  strain  of  labor,  under  the  disadvantage 
of  physical  weakness,  had  been  too  great,  and  he  looked 
pale  and  unnerved.  I  thought  he  would  be  ill,  but  he 
soon  recovered. 

Bill  had  been  under  such  a  strain  for  a  long  time  that 
I  thought  he  needed  change  and  entire  rest,  and  I  took 
him  home  with  me  to  spend  a  month.  Katherine 
brought  little  Kitty  McCabe  home,  and  the  child  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  trip  thoroughly.  She  was  such  a  bright, 
attractive  child  that  she  interested  the  entire  town. 
One  of  my  friends  wanted  to  adopt  her,  although  he 
knew  the  history  of  her  father.  I  wrote  to  her  father 
and  mother  and  told  them  of  the  desire,  but  they  refused 
to  give  up  Kitty. 

One  afternoon  when  Katherine  had  a  party  of 
friends,  a  young  man  who  had  just  entered  society  in 
our  town,  and  whom  we  did  not  know  well,  was  present, 
and  Kitty  came  into  the  room.  He  asked  who  she  was, 
and  said  to  a  gentleman  near  him,  "I'm  going  to  have 
some  fun  out  of  that  child.  Say,  little  one,  are  you  any 
kin  to  that  man  who  was  condemned  to  be  hung  a  year 
or  two  ago?"  Kitty  was  very  sensitive,   and  understood 


264  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

him  in  an  instant.  She  straightened  up  and  said,  "Sir^ 
he  is  my  father,"  and  ran  out  of  the  room  crying. 

Bill,  although  he  was  now  polished  in  manner,  and 
had  8o  often  manifested  strong  self-control,  now  showed 
the  lack  of  it,  so  common  to  people  in  the  lower  walk& 
of  life,  and  rose  in  anger,  took  the  young  man  by  the 
coat  collar  and  led  him  out  of  the  room.  When  they^ 
reached  the  gallery,  Bill  struck  him  an  awful  blow,  and 
said: 

*'I'll  teach  you  to  hurt  a  little  child's  feelings,*'' 
and  left  him. 

I  felt  outraged  with  both  Bill  and  the  young  man.  I 
had  followed  them  out,  and  when  Bill  turned  toward  me^ 
after  what  he  had  done,  he  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

* 'Neither  could  I,"  I  said,  ''but  there  was  a  quiet 
way  of  punishing  it." 

Bill  seemed  much  mortified,  and  went  to  his  room 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening.  Of  course  the  entire 
company  felt  embarrassed,  and  soon  dispersed. 

The  next  morning  the  young  man,  whom  I  found 
afterward  to  be  an  objectionable  character  in  many 
ways,  and  debarred  from  coming  to  my  house,  sent  a 
challenge  for  a  duel  with  Bill.  I  answered  the  chall- 
enge, stating  that  Mr.  Collins  was  a  Christian  gentleman 
and  did  not  fight  duels.  The  young  man  then  declared 
that  he  would  be  revenged  in  some  way,  but  he  made  no 
attempt  to  molest  Bill. 

I  thought  the  matter  had  died  out,  until  one  day 
there  was  a  picnic  in  the  country  about  five  miles,  and 
all  the  young  people  from  town  went.  The  day  was 
happily  spent,  and  it  was  almost  time  to  return,  when  it 
was  proposed  that  the  party  should  take  another  ride  in 
the  boats.  They  were  on  a  mill-pond  that  was  deep  in 
places.  Bill  had  taken  Kitty,  and  they  went  some  dis- 
tance up  the  lake.  Bill  got  out  of  the  boat  to  get  some 
grapes  for  her,  and  she  held  close  to  the  bank  by  the 
weeds  while  he  was  gathering  them.     I  was  near  in   a 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  2«6 

boat  with  Katherine,  when  I  saw  the  young  man  with 
whom  Bill  had  had  the  trouble  row  up  to  the  boat  in 
which  Kitty  was.  Bill  came  with  his  arms  full  of 
grapes,  talking  gaily  to  Kitty ;  but  just  as  he  was  going 
to  step  into  the  boat  his  enemy  pushed  it  away  with  hi» 
oar,  and  Bill  fell  into  the  deep  water.  Kitty  screamed, 
and  a  dozen  boats  went  to  them,  and  Bill  was  soon 
hauled  into  one  of  them.  The  young  man  who  perpe- 
trated the  dastardly  trick  jumped  out  of  his  boat  and 
got  to  town  as  soon  as  possible. 

With  the  exception  of  these  two  occurrences,  Kitty 
and  Bill  enjoyed  being  with  us,  and  the  change  seemed 
to  do  them  both  good.  Katherine  and  Bill  were  both 
fond  of  reading,  and  they  read  and  studied  together  a 
great  deal  of  the  time.  One  afternoon  I  found  them  in 
our  flower-garden,  sitting  under  the  crape  myrtle  tree, 
reading  and  talking  as  congenially  as  if  they  were  in 
every  way  equal. 

I  took  Bill  to  my  cabinet  one  day. 

"Come,"  I  said;  "I  have  a  rare  curiosity  to  show 
you.     Of  all  my  collection  I  value  this  most." 

It  was  a  small  flower,  pasted  on  a  satin  card. 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  first  met  you.  Bill,  on  a 
day  in  June  five  years  ago?  You  were  sitting  on  a  log 
resting  from  your  splinter-gathering.  You  took  me  to 
your  home,  and  on  the  way  we  stopped  to  admire  the 
flowers  that  made  the  mountain  beautiful.  I  remarked 
on  the  azalias,  and  you,  plucking  this,  said,  'You  like 
them  big  honeysuckles;  I  think  this  is  erpurty  thing.'  " 

Turning  the  card,  I  showed  him  the  quotation,  and 
said : 

"Since  that  day  the  arbutus  blossom  has  been  an 
emblem  of  hope  to  me, and  many  a  time  when  the  work 
at  Walesca  has  been  burdensome,  and  cares  and  doubts 
have  come  to  me,  I  have  taken  it  out  and  turned  to 
these  words,  and  felt  hope  renewed  and  energies  quick- 
ened." 

"I  remember  the  meeting  well,"  he  said.     "I   shall 


266 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 


never  forget  it ;  and  now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  remem- 
ber the  occurrence  with  the  flower,  though  I  had  forgot- 
ten it  before.  It  has,  indeed,  been  a  prophecy  of  better 
things,  and  hereafter  I,  too,  shall  regard  the  arbutus 
blossom  as  an  emblem  of  hope.  How  the  condition  of 
this  section  has  changed  since  this  little  flower  bloomed! 
Mr.  Ramla,  I  hope  my  life  is  worthier  than  it  was  then. 
My  hopes  are  higher  anyway,  and  it  is  time  I  were 
thinking  of  what  I  shall  do  in  life." 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  it,  but  not  just  yet. 
You  have  not  fully  recovered  your  strength,  and  during 
your  stay  with  us  I  want  you  to  think  of  nothing  that 
will  interfere  with  your  pleasure." 

I  put  the  arbutus  blossom  carefully  bnck  in  its  place, 
and  Bill  and  I  went  out  into  the  garden  where  other 
plants  bloomed.  Is  it  not  strange  that  this  lovely  flower, 
with  all  the  care  that  can  be  given  to  it,  will  not  live 
out  of  its  native  heath?  I  have  tried  to  cultivate  it,  but 
with  no  success.  It  seems  to  belong  to  lowly  life,  and 
to  be  an  emblem  of  hope  for  the  people  among  whom  it 
blooms.  It  is  theirs,  and  chooses  to  shed  its  influence 
about  them  alone. 

Bill  And  Kitty  remained  with  us  a  week  after  this, 
and  went  home  looking  better  and  happier  than  when 
they  came. 

The  mail  that  day  brought  me  a  note  from  my 
friend,  asking  me  to  come  to  Walesca  and  aid  him ; 
there  was  important  work  on  hand.  So  I  went  the  next 
day  to  help  in  it,  whatever  it  might  be. 


.U«  iltidd   tad     iii* 

:?{iow  f>r<^  :'^>^'-i' 


-ifff-T 


;..;[    if^*?     hiU 


5t»dai»iflv 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

I  found  my  friend  in  much  perplexity.  Counterfeit 
money  was  being  circulated  again.  When  Lewis  had 
been  there,  it  had  been  specie;  now  it  w^as  notes.  My 
friend  showed  me  a  communication  that  he  had  re- 
■ceived : 

"You  have  done  a  wonderful  work,  but  one  who 
would  really  bless  this  world  must  never  fold  his  hands. 
Tour  work  is  not  finished.  There  has  lately  risen  an- 
•other  evil  for  you  to  suppress.  A  counterfeiter  is  at 
work  somewhere  in  your  section,  and  you  had  better 
make  an  effort  to  find  him  before  your  school  opens." 

No  name  was  signed  to  the  letter. 

I  was  discouraged  to  think  of  having  to  brave  dan- 
gers and  difficulties  again.  I  had  thought  all  this  trou- 
ble was  over.  However,  I  went  out  among  the  people 
to  see  if  I  could  find  any  clue  to  the  criminals.  They 
knew  nothing,  they  said,  except  that  counterfeit  money 
was  circulated. 

Nicely,  the  gold-washer,  said  :  *'I  don't  git  dollars 
€asy  these  days,  an'  whin  I  do  git  'm  I  like  fur  'm  ter  be 
worth  somethin'.  I  had  er  dollar  here  the  other  day;  I 
dunno  whar  it  come  from.  It  had  been  put  away  er  long 
time,  mebbe  two  months,  an'  I  took  it  over  ter  town  fur 
ter  git  t'bacco  an'  meat,  an'  fetched  'm  home,  an'  the 
very  nex'  day  here  come  the  store-keeper  ridin'  up  an' 
sayin'  I'd  gin  him  money  what  warn't  good,  an'  he 
wanted  his  stuff  back  or  er  'nother  dollar.  I  had  done 
used  the  stuff,  an'  don*tyou  b'lieve,  that  man  made  me 
pay  him  er  'nother  dollar.  I'm  alius  losin'  money ; 
ain't  made  that  fifty  dollars  back  yit.  It's  turrible  times 
on  hones'  folks."  •* 

267 


268  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKEKS 

This  seemed  to  be  the  sentiment  of  the  entire  com- 
munity, but  they  had  taken  no  steps  to  suppress  the 
evil.  It  might  have  gone  on  forever,  and  they  would 
never  have  taken  steps  to  suppress  it.  The  crackers 
are  the  most  helpless,  listless  people  in  the  world. 

As  an  illustration  of  this,  there  was  no  sexton  at 
the  church,  and  the  people  had  to  attend  to  the  lamps, 
etc.  1  have  gone  to  church  at  night  between  the  iirst 
and  second  bells ,  and  there  would  be  a  hum  of  voices, 
but  no  lights.  When  I  lighted  the  lamps  there  would  be 
twenty  or  thirty  men  to  be  seen.  They  had  been  there 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and  abused  everybody  con- 
nected with  the  school  because  there  was  no  light,  but 
never  thought  it  their  duty  to  strike  a  match.  Whatever 
was  done  was  done  by  the  school. 

"What  did  they  do  before  the  school  was  here?"  I 
asked  my  friend. 

**The  preacher  lighted  the  lamps  and  swept  the 
church.     He  also  furnished  the  oil  and  the  broom." 

*'Let's  try  them  one  night,"  I  said,  when  I  was  to 
lecture  in  the  church. 

We  went,  but  there  was  no  light,  and  I  began  lect- 
uring in  the  dark.  After  I  had  spoken  probably  fif- 
teen minutes,  some  man  rose  and  said  : 

"Here,  stop  thar  er  minute;  I  say,  don't  you  think 
we'd  better  have  er  light?  I  can't  see  you,  an'  I  hears 
mostly  with  my  eyes.  Thar's  fellers  chawin'  t'bacco 
'round  me,  too,  an'  I's  got  on  my  bes'  Sunday-go-ter- 
meetin'  clothes." 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  to  have  a  light,"  I  said» 
**Please  strike  a  match;"  and  the  man  sat  down. 

The  crackers  laughed,  but  not  one  of  them  made 
an  effort  to  light  the  lamps,  and  my  friend  had  to  light 
them. 

And  so  counterfeit  money  might  have  been  circulat- 
ed forever,  an  though  the  old  crackers  would  have  com- 
plained, they  never  would  have  attempted  to  stop  the 
evil.     The  cracker  boys  who  had  been  to  school,  though. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  269 

were  becoming  active  citizens.  Two  of  these,  and  Bill, 
determined  with  me  to  try  to  discover  some  signs  of 
the  counterfeiter;  or,  rather,  to  find  out  whether  such 
a  man  was  operating  in  that  section,  before  we  wrote  for 
a  detective. 

We  went  out  one  night  to  where  the  stills  used  to 
be.  One  of  the  moonshiners  had  moved  from  his  home 
and  left  it  vacant.  The  house  and  still  were  both  go- 
ing to  decay.     We  went  there. 

"There  is  a  light  in  the  still,"  one  of  the  boys  said. 

We  went  nearer.  Two  of  us  went  on  one  side  of  the 
house,  and  two  on  the  other.  Through  the  window  we 
could  see  an  old  man,  stooped  and  gray,  stamping  paper. 
He  would  hold  one  up  to  the  light,  then  lay  it  down 
carefully  on  a  pile  of  similar  ones.  We  watched  him  for 
some  time. 

"He  will  no  doubt  be  here  to-morrow  night,"  I  said. 
"We  had  better  get  McCabe  to  come  with  us  then  and 
take  him." 

"Let's  take  him  now,  Mr.  Ramla,"  said  Bill.  "He's 
an  old  man,  and  it  would  be  no  trouble  at  all." 

"He  is  probably  disguised,"  I  said,  "and not  an  old 
man  at  all,  but  a  young  man  armed  and  desperate." 

"Well,  we  are  armed,  too,"  another  of  the  boys  re- 
plied, "and  we  had  better  make  sure  of  him  now  we've 
got  him." 

"Very  well,"  I  replied.  "We  shall  have  to  break 
this  window.     Of  course  his  doors  are  fastened." 

We  crashied  the  window  with  one  blow.  The  light 
went  out  immediately,  as  we  expected,  but  instead  of 
pistol  shots,  we  heard  only  a  groan,  and  the  old  man 
shuffling  about  the  room.  When  all  had  gotten  through 
the  window,  we  struck  a  match.  The  man  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  We  tried  the  doors ;  they  were  still  bolted 
on  the  inside,  and  the  window  we  had  not  broken  was 
fastened  on  the  inside,  too.  The  counterfeit  money  was 
lying  all  around,  blown  by  a  gust  from  the  window.  We 
thought  of  a  trap  door,  but   there  was  none.     We  were 


270  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

about  to  leave  when  we  heard  a  voice  on  the  roof.  I  op- 
ened the  door  and  ran  out  with  the  light  in  my  hand. 
The  boys  all  followed.  We  looked  on  the  roof,  and  the 
old  man  was  wildly  throwing  up  his  hands.  He  mut- 
tered something  we  could  not  understand,  and  jumped, 
though  we  called  to  him  not  to.  The  distance  was  not 
great,  but  he  was  lamed  by  the  fall,  and  his  head  was 
hurt.  We  picked  him  up,  and  took  him  in  the  house, 
though  he  madly  resisted.  The  light  fell  upon  his  face 
now,  and  I  recognized  him. 
■  '  ■  It  was  the  old  miser. 

**Is  it  really  you,  Mr.  Denton?"  I  asked.  "I  did 
not  recognize  you;  I  am  sorry  we  disturbed  you." 
;;  r"I  can't  live  in  no  peace,"  he  said,  and  he  groaned 
with  pain.  "They  won't  let  me  be.  They  got  all  my 
money  wunst,  and  now  they  come  ter  rob  me  when  I  try 
ter  git  more.  Oh!  it's  gone,  it's  gone,  it's  gone,"  he 
cried  in  agonized  tones.      "It's  all  gone;   oh,  me!" 

One  of  the  boys  went  for  a  doctor,  and  another  for 
one  of  the  former  moonshiners'  wives.  We  made  him  as 
comfortable  as  we  could  until  they  came.  He  kept  on 
mumbling,  and  now  and  then  would  grow  wild  and  make 
frantic  gestures.  Then  in  weakness  he  would  lie  quiet 
for  a  while.  At  last  he  seemed  to  sleep,  but  in  an  in- 
stant, with  a  sudden  jump,  he  sprang  from  the  bed  and 
began  picking  up  the  notes  on  the  floor.  One  leg  was 
broken  and  he  could  not  walk,  but  he  dragged  himself 
about  the  room,  and  seemed  to  forget  his  pain.  We 
tried  to  stop  him,but  it  infuriated  him  so  that  we  thought 
it  better  to  let  him  alone. 

I  told  the  boys  to  pick  up  his  money  for  him,  but 
when  they  tried  to  do  so  he  screamed  and  threw  any- 
thing in  his  reach  at  them.  He  dragged  himself  about 
the  room,  searching  in  every  nook  and  corner  for  his 
treasure  until  he  had  found  it  all;  and  then,  clutching  it 
tightly  with  a  grim  smile  of  contentment,  crawled  back 
to  the  bed.  We  lifted  him  in,  and  he  fainted  from 
weakness. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CBACKERS  271 

The  doctor  came.  "He  can  live  but  a  few  hours,'* 
he  said,  and  we  sent  for  his  family. 

Clutching  his  counterfeit  notes  tightly,  he  died  as 
he  had  lived — a  miser. 

His  family  said  that  they  supposed,  from  letters 
they  had  found,  that  he  had  been  induced  to  take  his 
money  to  Atlanta,  and  that  spiritual  mediums  had  got 
hold  of  it.  He  returned  and  seemed  better  satisfied  than 
he  had  been  for  years.  He  always  lived  in  a  little  cabin 
at  Walesca,  to  himself,  though,  and  they  had  known 
very  little  about  him.  bxia  ,iiiow  ,i9blo 

The  counterfeit  money  that  had  been  circulated  had 
first  made  its  appearance  about  [three  months  before. 
Everyone  supposed  that  the  old  man,  robbed  of  the  mon- 
ey he  had  hoarded,  had  become  weak  in  his  mind ;  but 
still  his  old  passion  controlled,  and  he  sought  to  recover 
his  lost  treasure  by  counterfeiting,    jjsnijjd  &  ed  bur.  3vj;rl 

I  did  not  like  to  think  that  the  death  of  the  Old  man 
had  been  caused  by  our  coming;  but  the  doctor  relieved 
me  much  when  he  said : 

''He  could  not  possibly  have  lived  a  month  longer  ; 
his  brain  and  heart  were  both  affected ;  the  fall  is  not 
what  killed  him  ;  he  had  congestion  of  the  brain,  and  he 
would  have  died  very  soon  anyway." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

A  few  days  after  the  old  miser's  death  Bill  and  I 
went  to  see  Callaway.  He  had  been  in  prison  only  a 
little  more  than  a  year,  but  he  looked  twenty  years 
older,  worn,  and  his  brow  furrowed. 

*'Bill,"  said  he,  "I  wronged  you  terribly,  but  I  am 
sorry  for  it,  and  if  I  could  live  my  life  over  I  would 
atone  for  the  evil  I  did  you." 

"It  has  passed,  Callaway,  and  though  I  hated  you 
once  for  it,  I  have  no  unkind  feeling  now.  I  could  not 
have  and  be  a  human  being." 

''That  is  true.  Who  would  hate  a  fallen  enemy?" 
Callaway  said.  "I  want  to  show  you  a  letter  from 
some  one;  I  think  it  must  be  from  Miss  MoUie." 

Bill  read  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  me. 

*'Deab  Mb.  Callaway; 

'*I  hope  this  little  note  will  not  serve  to  intensify  your 
grief  at  the  terrible  trouble  that  has  shadowed  your  life. 
It  is  sent  as  a  message  of  sympathy.  I  have  thought  of  you 
many  times  since  the  awful  event  which  has  brought  so 
much  woe  to  you  and  yours,  and  have  hoped  from  the  first 
that  some  day,  in  some  way,  good  may  grow  out  of  this  evil. 
I  beg  you  not  to  allow  your  fate  to  harden  you  because  you 
feel  that  there  is  now  no  hope  of  a  better  life.  Your  ability 
for  being  and  doing  good  is  not  taken  away  by  your  present 
condition.  Even  the  walls  of  a  prison  cell  cannot  confine  a 
life  that  would  exercise  its  influence  for  good.  The  soul 
cannot  be  bound  except  by  fetters  of  sin;  I  hope  for  you 
greater  freedom  than  you  have  ever  had.  Oh !  the  inestima- 
ble good  that  you  may  do  to  the  souls  about  you  if  you  will 
but  free  yourself  and  bend  all  your  energies  toward  freeing 
them !  Some  day,  I  trust,  pardon  will  reach  you,  but  I  urge 
you  not  to  think  of  earthly  pardon  now.  Think  rather  of 
the  pardon  that  earth  cannot  grant,  and  accept  that.  It 
will  sweeten  your  life  and  enable  you  to  consider  your  sur- 
roundings only  for  good,  and  to  be  and  to  do,  where  you  now 
are,  all  that  you  could  be  and  do  anywhere.  Be  sure  that 
the  world  needs  brave  and  noble  men  in  the  penitentiary  as 
surely  as  it  needs  them  everywhere  else.     Stand  among 

272 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  273 

your  fellows  as  a  type  of  manhood  amidst  misery  One 
more  thine::  After  you  have  repented  of  your  crime,  and 
feel  that  God  has  forgiven  you,  do  not  allow  a  sense  of  guilt 
to  oppress  you.  Grieve  not  always  on  account  of  the  sin  for 
which  Christ  died  once.  It  would  be  but  a  waste  of  strength , 
and  you  need  that  strength  and  the  world  needs  it.  I  shall 
think  of  and  pray  for  you.  May  the  love  of  heaven  ever 
shadow  you,  and  may  He  who  is  able  to  give  you  all  peace, 
all  strength,  all  joy,  ever  keep  you  near  himself.  I  would 
like  to  hear  from  you  sometimes,  but  for  reasons  that  do  not 
pertain  to  you  at  all,  it  is  best  for  me  not  to  make  myself 
known  to  you.    Think  of  me,  however,  as        A  Friend." 

"That  is  a  beautiful  letter,"  Bill  said  to  me.  "If 
it  is  from  Mol  I  wonder  who  wrote  it  for  her.  The 
thoughts  are  worthy  of  a  great  mind.  It  must  have 
helped  you,"  he  said  to  Callaway. 

"More  than  anything  that  has  come  to  my  life  in 
its  present  state.  What  she  says  is  true:  Men  are 
needed  in  the  penitentiary,  and  I  will  be  a  man  here. 
This  is  my  answer  to  the  letter: 

"Dear  Miss  Mollie  :— Though  you  have  reserved 
your  name,  you  have  not  reserved  your  identity  from  me.  I 
know  that  no  other  friend  could  have  sent  me  such  a  mes- 
sage. You  have  heard  of  sunbeams  finding  their  way  into 
prison  cells.  One  has  penetrated  mine  and  tinted  its  gloom. 
Not  a  word  of  condemnation,  not  a  word  of  just  blame.  I 
thank  you  for  this.  My  conscience  condemns  me;  the 
world  condemns  me ;  and  I  have  felt  so  oppressed  that  it  is 
a  relief  to  find  a  friend  who  can  forget  my  guilt,  and  think 
for  a  moment  of  my  misery.  If  the  one  was  great,  the  other 
is  commensurate  with  it.  But  I  will  try  to  be  strong  and 
bear  the  merits  of  my  sins.  I  thank  you  for  your  counsel, 
and  will  follow  it.  I  have  never  been  a  man,  but  I  will  be 
from  this  time  forth.  You  are  right;  even  if  one  has  fallen 
so  far  short  of  the  standard  of  manhood  as  to  reach  a  condi- 
tion like  mine,  he  should  not  feel  that  he  is  beyond  reforma- 
tion, or  that  his  life  would  be  of  no  service  to  the  world 
should  he  reform.  A  man  can  be  a  man  even  in  a  peniten- 
tiary, and  men  are  needed  here.  It  is  awful  to  be  with  my 
companions  in  guilt,  and  unless  I  can  reform  them,  I  cannot 
bear  their  companionship.  I  remember  the  days  at  Wales- 
ca  as  the  happiest  of  my  life.  Many  a  time  when  I  talked 
with  the  president  of  the  college,  or  Mr.  Ramla,  or  with 
you,  did  I  feel  an  inspiration  to  higher  living.  Why  did  I 
not  change  my  course  then?  Those  days  have  passed,  but 
it  is  well  that  the  memory  of  them  remains.  If  I  ever  be- 
come what  you  urge  me  to  become,  it  will  be  due  to  the  in- 
fluences of  that  time.  Think  of  me  as  kindly  as  you  can, 
and  write  to  me.  My  recollection  of  you  will  always  be  as 
of  a  benediction.  May  our  Father  bless  you  as  you  develop 
into  the  highest,  purest  womanhood. 

"Gratefully  yours, 

"Robert  Callaway." 


274  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

When  we  left  Callaway  I  said : 
iii,V,,'^Bill,  if  you  cared  for  Mollie  as  you  used  to,  that 
letter  would  certainly  arouse  your  interest." 

*'It  has  aroused  it  very  much,"  hereplied.  "Ida 
not  care  for  her  now,  but  I  am  still  interested  in  her, 
and  I  should  like  to  know  who  is  the  author  of  the  let- 
ter. It  shows  that  Mol  is  under  the  influence  of  a 
strong  character  and  a  noble  mind." 

"Bill,  I  would  not  intrude  upon  your  feelings,  but 

if  an   old  friend  may  ask  the  question,  whom    do  you 

care  for  now?     I  never  see  you   paying  attention  to  any 

girl,  but  you  have  at    times  spoken  as  if  you  cared  for 

some  one." 
n  ■ 

**Mr.   Ramla,   there   are  few  things  that  I   would 

keep  from  you,  but  this  I  must.     My  love  must  be  my 
own  secret  until  I  am  in  a  position   to   declare  it  to  the 
young  lady  herself." 
V    V3t  begged  his  pardon  and  said  no  more. 

I  have  been  to  see  Callaway  often  since,  and  am 
sure  he  is  keeping  his  word.  Some  day  he  may  be  par- 
doned ;  but  should  he  never  be  I  do  not  think  his  nature 
will  suffer  injury,  since  he  seems  in  every  way  a  changed 
man. 


iiOY  yll 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

My  friend  and  I  again  talked  over  the  condition  of 
affairs.  It  had  certainly  improved.  There  was  no  evil 
element  in  the  school  or  its  surroundings  now,  unless  the 
whitecaps  should  cause  trouble.  The  discipline  was  ex- 
cellent. Every  student  moved  to  the  tap  of  the  electric 
bell.  The  teaching  was  good  and  the  school,  as  an  en- 
tirety, was  all  that  any  people  could  wish.  The  condi- 
tion of  the  crackers  in  that  section  was  better  than  that 
of  many  other  classes  in  other  sections. 

I  determined  to  go  home  and  to  come  back  to  Wa- 
lesca  only  when  my  friend  needed  me.  My  own  busi- 
ness required  some  personal  attention  for  awhile,  and  I 
told  my  friend  that  I  would  leave  him. 

Before  I  left  Walesca  Bill  came  to  consult  me  about 
his  plans  for  life.  It  was  in  August,  and  the  weather 
was  very  warm. 

"Let's  wait  until  night.  Bill,  and  go  up  on  Pine  Log 
to  talk  the  matter  over." 

"All  right,"  he  said;  and  he  returned  home. 

That  night  I  was  detained  at  Walesca  until  very 
late,  but  having  given  my  promise  to  Bill  I  went  any- 
way. Riding  along  rapidly,  my  horse  shied  and  nearly 
threw  me.  Something  must  have  frightened  him,  and  I 
looked  to  see  what  it  was,  but  could  discover  nothing. 
The  whitecaps  had  of  late  been  doing  some  desper- 
ate work,  and  it  was  hardly  safe  for  even  an  honest  man 
to  be  out  at  night.  Two  nights  before  they  had  pun- 
ished a  man  who  was  probably  innocent. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  I  reached  Mrs.  Collins' 
house.  The  family  had  all  retired  except  Bill.  He  was 
still  waiting  for  me. 

276 


276  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

"What  made  you  so  late?"  he  asked,  and  I  told 
bim. 

''Shall  we  go  up  on  the  mountain  now?"  I  asked. 
*'The  air  i«  cool  and  it  will  be  delightful,  but  it  may  not 
be  safe.  I  just  passed  something  -that  frightened  my 
horse;  maybe  the  whitecaps  are  out." 

*'They  will  hardly  come  to  the  top  of  Pine  Log 
to  look  for  any  one,  and  I  am  so  anxious  to  talk  to  you 
about  my  plans  that  if  you  are  willing  we  will  go." 

When  we  reached  the  top,  I  said : 

"Bill,  in  five  years  there  have  been  many  changes. 
I  have  been  glad  of  most  of  them,  but  sometimes  I  like 
to  think  of  the  past  and  look  for  an  assurance  that 
it  really  was.  Look  to  the  heavens  and  behold  the  type 
of  constancy.  'As  fixed  and  constant  as  the  northern 
star,'  is  no  meaningless  phrase.  If  Caesar's  word  was  in- 
deed of  that  character,  and  he  was  as  wise  as  he  was 
constant,  Mark  Anthony  was  right  to  weep  over  his 
body.  The  arbutus  blooms  here,  and  fades;  the  birds 
fling  their  melodies ,  and  are  gone ;  the  trees  throw 
off  their  summer  robes,  the  snows  come  and  melt  upon 
Pine  Log;  but  above  it  the  stars  remain.  The  milky 
way  divides  the  heavens,  and  its  light  is  so  soft  and  pale 
that  you  think  surely  it  will  flicker  out  while  you  look 
up ;  but  the  light  of  your  eyes  shall  fade  first.  The 
light  of  millions  of  eyes  have  faded,  and  who  knows  but 
that  the  milky  way  sheds  its  light  in  the  long  journey  of 
the  soul  when  it  receives  its  new  sight  through  the  val- 
ley and  over  the  river?  See,  Polaris  guards  the  north, 
and  wise  Major,  in  dazzling  brillian(?e,  is  near  by;  Ca- 
pella,  girt  with  splendor,  is  yonder,  and  Jupiter  and 
Mars  stand  in  twin  glory,  reminding  us  that  we,  too,  are 
one  of  the  starry  hosts  and  literally  dwell  in  the  skies ; 
and,  because  we  are  one  of  them,  they  plead  with  us  to 
be  worthy  of  our  position.  It  seems  to  me  sometimes, 
when  the  stars  twinkle  so,  that  their  hearts  are  heavy 
because  of  our  failures,  and  that  their  eyelids  blink 
with  the  weight  of  tears." 


DOWN   AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  277 

I  said  this  for  Bill's  sake.  It  is  necessary  to  think 
externally  as  well  as  internally  when  plans,  especially 
plans  of  life,  are  made.  We  went  along  till  we  reached 
the  white  cliffs,  and  then  sat  down  to  talk. 

"Have  you  decided  what  you  will  do?"  I  asked. 

"No;  I  have  thought  of  many  things,  but  decided 
upon  nothing." 

"Do  you  want  to  enter  a  profession?" 

"I  do  not  know.  It  is  my  taste  to  do  so,  but  I 
scarcely  know  whether  it  is  my  desire  or  not.  There 
are  so  many  in  the  professions  now,  that  it  is  a  question 
whether  it  is  best  to  enter  any  of  them.  Some  have  to 
fail." 

"You  need  not,"  I  said;  "  'it  is  impossible  but 
that  offense  cometh ;  but  woe  unto  him  by  whom.* 
Whether  there  be  few  or  many,  failure  is  always  posi- 
tive guilt.  The  man  who  fails  is  alone  responsible  for 
it." 

"But  where  there  are  so  many  the  competition 
is  great,  and  the  support  of  the  profession,  whatever  it 
be,  is  divided." 

"You  are  not  involved  in  that.  'There's  always 
room  at  the  top,'  as  Webster  said.  Up  there  compe- 
tition and  division  of  support  are  but  little  felt ;  there 
alone  is  real  excellence.  Which  of  the  professions  do 
you  like  best?" 

"I  have  thought  of  law;  they  say  I  have  talent  for 
speaking.     But  the  bar  is  very  corrupt." 

"That  does  not  necessitate  your  becoming  so." 

"I  have  thought  of  preaching,  but  I  am  not  good 
enough  to  preach." 

"That  is  the  poorest  excuse  any  human  being  ever 
gave  for  not  doing  anything.  What  do  you  think  of 
authorship?  If  you  are  a  good  speaker,  you  might  be- 
come a  good  writer." 

"The  literary  market  is  flooded  now,  and  there  ib  no 
sale  for  any  but  the  lightest  or  the  most  sensational  mat- 
ter.    I  would  not  be  an  author." 


278  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

**You  are  mistaken.  There  are  writers  who  will 
not  stoop  to  such  matter  as  you  speak  of,  and  among 
them  are  men  and  women  with  names  and  fortunes. 
Because  such  things  will  be,  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  engage  in  them.     You  do  not  like  the  vocations?" 

"No;  I  must  say  that  I  cannot  think  of  one  that  I 
like.'' 

**Well,  taste  is  not  necessarily  a  consideration. 
Talent  is  what  you  should  think  of.  You  have  spoken 
of  failure  as  a  probability.  That  should  not  be  even  a 
possibility  if  you  choose  well.  You  have  spoken  of  cor- 
ruption. That  is  always  a  personal  matter  alone.  You 
have  epoken  o^  profit.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with 
your  choice;  it  does  not  belong  to  any  particular  busi- 
ness, but  may  belong  to  all.  You  have  spoken  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  catering  to  the  public.  You  have  involved 
necessity  with  profit.     No  mean  thing  is  necessary." 

"You  think  then  that  a  young  man  starting  in  life 
need  not  consider  these  things.?" 

"I  do;  he  but  wearies  his  brain,  and,  shutting  out 
from  it  higher  considerations,  starts  out  in  life  a  failure  ; 
no  wonder  he  ends  a  failure." 

"What  are  these  higher  considerations?" 

"There  are  two  only:  First,  that  I  make  a  success 
of  myself,  not  of  my  business ;  and,  second,  what  is  my 
capacity  for  doing  this?  Have  you  thought  of  what  tal- 
ents you  must  develop  in  order  to  do  this?  If  you 
have,  that  is  all.  The  rest  will  take  care  of  itself.  All 
life,  with  whatever  it  offers  of  influence  or  power  or 
fame,  is  free  to  you.  You  get  what  you  choose.  Make 
yourself,  and  you  may  walk  up  to  the  whole  basketful 
of  the  world's  goods  and  take  any  that  you  wish,  as  you 
may  select  an  apple  from  a  basket  or  a  banana  from  a 
bunch.  Of  course  you  will  select  what  suits  you,  and 
herein  is  shown  the  fact  that  the  self  controls  all." 

"I  certainly  want  to  be  a  man.  That  has  been  my 
liighest  thought  all  the  time." 

*'I  believe  that.   Bill;   but  you   have  thought  that 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  279 

circumstances  and  condition  had  something  to  do  with 
manhood.  They  positively  have  no  more  to  do  with  it 
than  I  have  to  do  with  the  building  of  a  Chinese  railroad. 
The  highest  advertisement  that  could  be  put  in  a  paper 
is  put  in  every  paper  that  is  published,  secular  or  relig- 
ious:  'Wanted,  men  and  women!'  and  yet  employment- 
seekers  glance  over  the  real  want  and  see  that  somebody 
is  advertising  for  a  butler  or  a  cook  or  a  typewriter  or  a 
school-teacher.  The  want  is  for  men  and  women  who 
will  fill  these  positions.  There  is  another  form  of  ad- 
vertisement in  all  papers  :  'Wanted,  by  a  young  man 
(or  woman),  a  position;  willing  and  able  to  do  any- 
thing.' These  are  usually,  though  not  always,  inserted 
by  persons  who  have  failed  to  become  men  and  women, 
and  are  in  extreme  need,  and  deceive  the  public  in  be- 
lieving they  can  do  anything.  If  you  have  considered 
that  your  first  need  is  to  become  a  man,  the  only  thing 
for  you  to  do  next  is  to  consider  your  talent  and  develop 
that.  Your  talent  is  the  thing  upon  which  God  risks 
your  success  in  this  world.  And  there  is  no  competition 
in  talents.  They  are  individual.  Develop  your  individ- 
uality, let  it  express  itself  in  highest  manhood,  and  you 
must  succeed ;  all  the  powers  in  the  world  should  rise 
up  to  aid  you.  You  have  begun  to  make  a  man  of  your- 
self. The  work  will  not  be  accomplished  until  life  ends. 
Never  waver  for  one  moment ;  never  slacken  your  ener- 
gies; never  relax.  That  is  all  1  need  to  say  to  you,  ex- 
cept this:  What  your  talent  is,  you  must  decide  for 
yourself  ;  no  one  else  can  decide  for  you.  If  you  should 
be  in  doubt,  try  one  thing,  and  then  another,  until  you 
find  it.  And  when  you  do,  never  mind  if  you  do  not 
make  ton  dollars  a  month  in  he  work  by  which  you  de- 
velop that  talent,  continue  in  it.  If  it  calls  you  to  the 
blacksmifch  shop,  go  there ;  if  it  calls  you  to  the  pulpit, 
go  there.  From  what  I  know  of  you,  through  years  of 
close  study,  I  think  you  should  become  a  minister.  Go 
home  and  think  about  it  and  decide.  And  when  you 
have  decided,  I  will  talk  with  you,  and  will  help  you, 
if  I  can,  about  the  means." 


280  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

My  friend  had  talked  to  the  entire  school  often  as  I 
was  then  talking  to  Bill  alone.  Bill  also  noticed  this, 
but  said: 

"It  didn't  sound  so  serious  to  me  then  as  it  does 
now . ' ' 

''That  is  because  now  is  the  time  to  decide.  Then 
you  felt  that  you  could  wait  awhile." 

We  heard  a  sound  like  the  tramp  of  soldiers,  and 
we  got  under  the  cliff  as  quietly  as  possible  and  waited 
to  see  what  it  meant.  Presently  a  party  of  about  fifty 
men  came  along.  They  were  whitecaps,  and  looked 
ghastly  in  the  moonlight.  I  had  never  seen  them  before. 
They  passed  near  enough  for  us  to  touch  them,  but  they 
were  marching  rapidly,  and  did  not  see  us.  I  wondered 
what  their  night's  work  had  been. 

After  they  were  out  of  sight,  we  came  from  under 
the  cliff.  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late.  The  moon  was 
just  setting,  the  gray  dawn  appeared  in  the  east,  and 
the  wild  bird  began  to  whistle  its  morning  song.  I 
asked  Bill  to  wait  that  I  might  see  the  sun  rise  again 
from  Pine  Log.  It  was  as  beautiful  as  after  that  first 
night  I  stayed  with  Bill. 

It  was  well  that  I  had  come  to  talk  with  Bill  that 
night,  for  when  I  reached  Walesca,  I  found  a  telegram 
calling  me  home. 

When  I  reached  home  I  found  my  youngest  child  ill 
with  that  fearful  scourge,  diphtheria.  All  night  long 
his  mother,  Katherine,  and  I  watched.  The  little  fellow 
was  strong,  and  able  to  run  about  the  room.  There  was 
no  gradual  sinking,  no  slope  before  the  \ alley  was 
reached.  The  terrible  germ  was  simply  choking  him  to 
death,  but  he  struggled  for  life  bravely.  He  would  run 
from  one  to  another,  clutch  his  throat,  throw  his  little 
hands  up  convulsively,  and  gasp.  Then  he  would  take 
his  bag  of  oxygen  and  press  it  to  his  lips  and  breathe 
more  quietly.  I  took  him  in  my  arms  fifty  times  or 
more  that  night,  and  each  time  he  clasped  me  so  lovingly 
that  my  brain  almost  turned. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CBACKERS  281 

Holmes  was  seven  years  old,  my  only  boy  and  my 
hope. 

"Oh  that  I  could  take  your  place,  my  son !"  I  said, 

"No,  father,  better  the  branch  than  the  vine." 

Wonderful   ansv^^er  for  a  child !     He   was  not  far 

from  the  Gates  then.     He  jumped  from  my   lap,    ran   to 

his  mother,  buried  his  face  in  her  dress,  and,   before  we 

knew   it,    had  passed  through   the  Gates   of  the  City. 

For  only  two  years  of  his  life  had  I  been  with   him 

much,  and  just  the  week  before,   my  wife  had   written 

that  she  was   so  glad   I  was  coming  home  to   stay,    on 

Holmes's  account  especially;   he  was  just  at  the  age  at 

which  he  should  feel  theforceof  each  parent's  character. 

I  felt  that  I  must  have  been  wrong  in  staying  at  Walesca. 

But  who  can  tell? 

Of  all  sad  things  that  have  come  to  my  life,  this 
seems  the  saddest.  It^has  now  been  ten  years  since  that 
awful  telegram  came.  I  have  received  others  that  have 
brought  news  of  business  loss  and  sudden  trouble,  but 
none  like  this.  Ten  years  since  that  fearful  night 
watch ;  I  have  passed  through  many  a  night's  watch 
since,  but  none  like  this.  Ten  years  since  Holmes  left 
us;  I  have  said  many  a  good-bye  since,  but  memory  still 
regards  this  the  saddest. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

When,  five  years  previously,  my  friend  had  asked 
me  to  come  to  Walesca  and  aid  him  in  the  work,  I  had 
been  a  man  of  some  means.  My  assets  had  been  twenty 
thousand  dollars  in  bank  stocks,  a  comfortable  home, 
with  even  some  of  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  a  profitable 
business.  My  liabilities  had  been  few.  I  had  begun  to 
think  that  I  might  take  some  ease,  and  not  feel  that  to- 
morrow's life  depended  upon  to-day's  labors.  When 
my  friend's  letter  came  asking  me  to  come  and  help  him 
in  his  work,  I  took  it  to  my  wife. 

''This  is  from  a  young  man  who  is  trying  to  help 
the  world ;  he  is  laboring  among  a  class  that  needs  help 
more  than  any  other  in  this  country ;  it  has  been  longer 
neglected  than  any  other;  no  crusade  of  Christians  or 
philanthropists  has  reached  it;  no  writer  has  spoken  of 
it  except  in  jesting  manner  or  exaggeration,  depicting 
the  life  of  this  people  in  such  a  way  that  reformers  have 
thought  it  folly  to  attempt  to  do  them  good.  They  are 
the  'crackers'  or  'mountain  whites.'  The  crackers  as  a 
class  live  in  the  low  piney-woods  country,  and  are  infe- 
rior to  the  mountain  whites,  but  my  friend  has  found 
both  classes  around  Walesca,  and  has  established  a  work 
there  that  I  believe  will  be  of  great  benefit  to  our  civili- 
zation and  culture.  I  will  leave  this  letter  with  you  to 
think  over,  and  we  will  decide  to-night  what  I  shall  do." 

When  I  came  home  that  evening,  she  said :  "We 
will  talk  that  matter  over  now.  What  would  become  of 
your  business  should  you  go?  Do  you  think  it  is  in 
such  condition  that  you  can  leave  it  for  a  time?" 

"I  think  it  is.  We  have  enough  bank  stock  to  in- 
sure us  a  comfortable  living  always,  and  lean  attend  to 

282 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  288 

my  business  well  enough  by  coming  home  every  few 
weeks,  and  you  can  consult  with  my  partner  during  my 
absence  and  decide  many  things  yourself.  Bewides,  if 
we  should  lose  something,  the  cause  of  humanity  must 
be  considered,  and  any  good  we  may  accomplish  will  re- 
pay us  for  all  loss." 

"If  that  is  the  plea,  then  you  must  go  at  once. 
Tour  family  needs  you,  but  humanity  needs  you  more." 

"My  family  is  not  lost  sight  of;  I  have  spoken  of  us 
as  one,  with  one  thought  and  one  purpose ;  it  is  not  a 
choice  between  my  family  and  humanity,  but  it  is  my 
family  laboring  for  humanity,"  I  said;  and  my  wife 
agreed  with  me. 

The  first  year  I  was  at  Walesca  my  business  pros- 
pered almost  as  well  as  if  I  had  been  at  home.  The 
school  was  in  great  needof  money  when  I  went  to  it,  and 
to  help  the  work  more  1  gave  of  my  means  as  well  as  my 
labor,  but  what  I  gave  in  money  was  only  part  interest 
on  my  bank  stock,  and  I  really  did  not  miss  it  except  in 
a  few  little  sacrifices  that  amounted  to  nothing.  The 
second  year,  by  peculiar  management  of  my  partner,  we 
lost  $10,000.  I  do  not  say  that  I  should  have  saved  it 
bad  I  been  there,  but  he  was  kind  enough  to  say  so.  He 
begged  me  to  come  home  then,  but  I  did  not  feel  that  I 
-could  leave  my  friend.  The  third  year  of  my  stay  we 
lost  more,  but  I  did  not  feel  half  so  troubled  about 
money  losses  as  I  did  about  the  interests  of  the  people 
with  whom  I  was  associated.  After  the  work  at  Walesca 
was  so  firmly  established,  however,  and  seemed  to  need 
me  no  longer,  I  went  home  determined  to  recover 
my  losses  if  possible.  I  settled  with  my  partner  for  my 
absence.  He  had  not  spoken  of  it,  but  it  was  only  just 
to  him  that  he  should  lose  nothing  by  my  being  away. 
This  left  me  but  a  small  interest  in  our  business,  though 
I  had  been  the  senior  partner. 

One  day,  about  a  month  after  Holmes's  death,  the 
president  of  the  bank  in  which  I  had  stock  said  to  me: 
*'I  am  troubled;  I  fear  we  shall  sustain  heavy  loss  soon, 
■even  if  we  do  not  have  to  make  an  assignment.*' 


284  DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS 

**What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Do  you  know  that  I  believe  our  trusted  manager^ 
the  man  who  has  been  with  us  for  years,  is  an  em- 
bezzler?" 

''Impossible,"  I  said;  *'he  is  one  of  the  best  men  I 
ever  knew." 

"Well,  the  bank  inspector  will  be  here  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  we  shall  know  then ;  I  trust  my  fears  are 
groundless." 

I  called  at  the  manager's  house  that  night.  "He 
is  yet  at  the  bank,"  the  servant  said. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock.  I  had  often  called  at  that 
hour,  and  had  always  found  him  at  home. 

I  went  to  the  bank  to  see  him ;  he  was  still  at 
work. 

"What  is  the  matter,  that  you  are  here  at  this 
hour?"  I  asked.  "Stop  work  for  the  night  and  talk 
with  me.     You  look  weary  and  need  rest." 

He  (lid,  indeed,  look  weary;  I  had  never  seen  him 
look  so  haggard. 

"My  brain  has  been  dull  to- day,"  he  said,  "and  I 
am  not  yet  through  ;"  but  he  left  his  work  and  came 
and  sat  near  me.  He  was  very  nervous,  however,  and 
did  not  sit  still  ten  minutes. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked,  and  he  looked  up 
startled,  as  if  he  had  been  accused. 

"I  am  not  well,"  he  said. 

The  following  day  the  inspector  came.  The  man- 
ager was  in  his  office,  and  excused  himself  for  a  moment. 
He  went  out  of  a  side  door  into  the  street,  and  when  the 
inspector  sent  for  him  it  was  found  that  he  had  fl^d, 
and  he  has  never  been  found.  An  old  man  he  was,  and 
left  wife  and  children,  who  keenly  felt  the  disgrace.  He 
had  embezzled  a  large  sum.  The  bank  made  an  assign- 
ment, and  I  was  left  almost  penniless — all  gone  but  my 
horn©  and  a  small  interest  in  a  business  that  was  not 
very  profitable  now.  I  was  an  old  man,  and  had  to  be- 
gin life  over  again  as  far  as  money  was  concerned. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CBACKEKS  285 

"We  have  been  called  upon  to  realize  that  a  man 
may  lose  all  that  he  has  in  helping  humanity,"  my  wife 
«aid. 

I  was  sorry  for  the  loss  on  her  account  and  Kather- 
ine's,  but  they  both  bore  it  bravely,  as  women  can  bear 
such  things.  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  suffered  loss. 
When  my  friend  had  gone  to  Walesca  he  had  been  a 
young  man  of  means.  His  father  had  left  him  a  con- 
siderable amount,  but  he  spent  every  cent  for  the  school. 
Buildings  had  to  be  erected,  appliances  bought,  and 
teachers  paid  from  his  private  purse.  The  school  was 
not  self-supporting  for  a  long  time. 

I  heard  from  Bill  not  long  after  I  left  Walesca.  He 
had  decided  upon  his  talent.  "I  will  study  for  the 
ministry ;  I  believe  that  any  power  of  tongue  or  pen  that 
I  have  I  can  use  best  for  that."  I  was  glad  of  this,  for 
I  had  felt  for  a  long  time  that  Bill  should  become  a  min- 
ister. I  was  sorry  for  my  loss  of  fortune  on  his  account, 
too.  It  had  been  my  purpose  to  aid  him  financially. 
The  Methodist  Church  does  not  require  a  student  for 
the  ministry  to  enter  a  theological  seminary.  It  re- 
quires him  to  study  a  certain  course  privately,  and  the 
annual  Conference  examines  him  upon  that  course.  In 
one  respect  this  is  an  excellent  plan :  it  saves  students 
much  expense.  But  it  deprives  him  of  lectures  and 
other  benefits  of  the  regular  theological  school.  Bill 
wanted  these,  and  I  had  intended  furnishing  him  the 
means  to  procure  them.  I  went  to  Walesca,  however, 
to  see  Bill.  He  was  much  worried.  He  wanted  to  go 
to  Union  Theological  Seminary,  but  had  not  the  means. 
Besides,  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  leave  his  mother 
with  all  the  care  of  the  family.  I  told  him  that  I  would 
borrow  enough  for  his  course,  and  would  aid  in  the  sup- 
port of  his  mother  and  the  children  the  next  year,  if  he 
would  work  in  the  summer  and  pay  it  back.  He  was 
delighted. 

He  went  to  the  Union  Seminary  during  the  next 
term,  and  did  well.     He  came  home  in  June,  and  I  pro- 


286  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

cured  him  a  lucrative  position,  by  means  of  which  he 
could  return  a  large  part  of  the  sum  he  had  borrowed. 
He  stayed  until  November,  when  he  attended  the  Con- 
ference and  stood  his  first  examination. 

The  same  year  my  wife  said: 

**We  must  send  Katherine  off  for  one  or  two  years." 

We  had  spoken  of  it  before,  but  were  waiting  until 
her  character  should  be  fully  formed.  A  boarding- 
school  is  not  always  the  best  place  for  a  girl  whose  char- 
acter is  not  developed. 

Ah  me !  I  had  thought  of  Katherine's  disappoint- 
ment; it  was  the  most  trying  thing  involved  in  my  loss, 
so  trying  that  I  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  it  to  my  wife 
before  she  mentioned  it.  I  told  her  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  send  Katherine  now. 

"Do  you  think  I  have  had  no  foresight?"  she  said; 
**I  did  not  know  how  long  we  should  have  money,  and  I 
have  saved  enough  for  Katherine's  education." 

O  woman,  what  would  the  world  do  without  your 
forethought? 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

Out  of  her  monthly  drawings  my  wife  had  saved  a 
considerable  amount,  and  we  sent  Katherine  to  Welles - 
ley  College.  The  next  summer  she  came  home  delighted, 
having  accomplished  much. 

Bill  came  hack  to  Georgia  also,  and  I  got  him  a 
position  in  the  town  in  which  I  lived.  He  stayed  with  us 
that  summer,  and  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  have  him. 
He  had  become,  in  his  seven  years'  training,  elegant  in 
manners,  and  he  had  always  had  a  good  heart  and  deli- 
cate sensibilities.  He  was  a  remarkable  young  man. 
Few,  with  the  opposition  of  his  fellows,  would  have 
come  out  from  among  them  as  he  had.  But  for  him,  the 
crackers  might  never  have  changed  their  views,  and  the 
college  might  now  be  untenanted  and  decayed. 

He  and  Katherine  and  I  went  to  Walesca  for  a  week 
that  summer.  The  night  after  we  got  there  we  were  in- 
vited to  a  cracker  entertainment,  about  fifty  miles  away. 
There  was  just  such  a  class  assembled  as  I  had  met  at 
Bill's  party  seven  years  before,  except  that  here  were 
people  of  all  ages,  from  a  child  five  years  old  to  a  woman 
seventy-five. 

An  old  woman  said  to  us : 

"We  uns  hearn  tell  o'  you  uns  at  Warlesky,  an'  how 
you  done  give  up  the  old  ways  an'  is  livin'  in  er  new- 
fangled fashion,  what  we  uns  dunno  nothin'  'bout;  an* 
we  uns  thought  we'd  ax  you  uns  up  ter  our  kind  o' 
party,  so  you  uns  wouldn't  forgit  the  olo  way.  We 
uns  is  Jes'  heard  tell  o'  what  you  uns  is  doin'  down 
thar.  Er  long,  tall,  smart-lookin'  man  come  through 
here  week  'fore  last,  an'  he  tole  us  'bout  it;  must  be  er 
cur'osity.     We   uns  would  'a'  come  down  ef  we'd  er 

287 


288  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

known  'bout  it  'fore.  They  say  it's  been  a-goin'  on  six 
years  or  more;  but  that  ain't  nothin' ;  we  uns  don't  go 
ter  Warlesky  les'  somethin'  smart's  goin'  on,  an'  folks 
sends  us  word;  we  don't  hear  from  thar  oft'n.  You  uns 
mought  er  sent  us  word,  I  think,  but  that  don't  matter 
now.  You  jes'  come  'long  in,  an'  thin  whin  you  uns  go 
back  to  Warlesky,  you  uns  give  er  party  o'  yer  kind,  an' 
we  uns  '11  come  sure.  Never  knowed  whether  you  got 
the  invite  or  not;  that  long,  tall,  smart-lookin'  man  said 
he'd  take  it.     What'd  he  tell  you  'bout  we  uns?" 

We  had  not  seen  the  man  to  whom  she  referred,  and 
the  invitation  had  come  through  the  mail,  my  friend 
said,  with  a  request  that  it  be  announced  at  a  meeting 
of  the  citizens. 

*'Well,  now,  that's  cur'us.  I  didn't  think  's  how 
that  man  would  er  done  so,  but  it's  all  right.  You  come 
here,  honey,"  she  said  to  Katherine  and  two  or  three 
other  girls  with  their  chaperons.  "Brother  Ike,  you 
take  keer  o'  the  men  folks." 

''Brother  Ike"  took  us  to  one  side:  "Bein'  's  how 
you  come  so  fur,  you  mout  want  ter  liken  yerselves  up 
er  bit,"  he  said;  and  he  furnished  us  scanty  means  for 
toilet-making. 

I  said  aside  to  my  friend:  "The  school  is  in  the 
wrong  place.  These  are  certainly  the  worst  specimens 
1  have  seen." 

The  children  had  their  games  in  one  corner  of  the 
building,  the  young  men  in  another,  the  young  girls  in 
a  third,  the  old  men  in  a  fourth,  and  the  old  women  in 
the  center. 

"We  uns  '11  jes'  talk  an'  have  er  quiet  time;  can't 
jump  'bout  now  like  the  young  uns;"  and  they  sat  there 
talking  and  freely  using  snuff. 

One  woman  said  she  wasn't  "neither  mighty  old  nor 
yit  mighty  young,  an'  reckin  I'll  have  ter  'vide  my 
time."  She  went  from  one  group  of  her  own  sex  to  the 
other,  and  attracted  much  attention,  as  she  probably 
wanted  to  do.     She  was  very  tall,  and  weighed  perhaps 


DOWN  AMONG   THE   CRACKERS  289 

two  hundred  pounds.  She  wore  a  lawn  skirt,  a  little 
short  in  front  and  much  too  long  behind,  a  long  red  vel- 
vet basque  with  a  ruffle  around  it,  a  black  leather  belt 
with  a  tin  buckle,  a  large  bouquet  of  red  and  yellow 
flowers  pinned  on  her  dress,  and  a  black  hat,  curiously 
bent,  with  a  wreath  of  natural  flowers  around  it,  that 
faded  before  we  had  been  there  long,  and  dropped  off,  a 
flower  at  a  time,  as  she  skipped  across  from  one  group 
to  another,  until  they  had  all  disappeared  and  left  the 
hat  bare.     The  flowers  on  her  dress  were  artificial. 

One  man  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  eccentric,  also.  He 
was  old,  and  was  quiet  in  his  manner,  but  he  had  a 
strange  habit  of  touching  his  right  ear  when  he  met  cer- 
tain people.  I  asked  a  man  who  seemed  more  intelli- 
gent than  the  rest  why  the  old  man  did  this.  He  said 
that  some  years  before  he  had  gone  to  a  town  some  miles 
off  and  received  a  mock  degree  of  masonry,  and  that 
this  sign  had  been  given  to  him  as  the  sign  of  recogni- 
tion with  masonfe.  Since  then  he  had  always  used  it 
when  he  saw  a  man  whom  he  thought  might  be  a  mason. 

The  old  man  came  up  to  me. 

"You  be  a  mason?"  he  asked. 

"I  am,"  I  answered;  and  he  touched  his  ear. 

I  did  not  respond,  and  he  said : 

*'We  uns  that's  masons  in  these  parts  alius  gives  the 
sign  ;  fine  thing  'tis,  sure,  but  that  calf  butted  me  down 
fust  pop."  They  had  used  a  calf  instead  of  the  prov- 
erbial goat.  "I  don't  think  it'd  er  done  it  though  ef  I 
hadn't  'a'  run  ag'in  it  whin  I  war  blindfolded,  'caze 
calves  ain't  fightin'  animules  giner'ly." 

The  girls  played  games  of  one  kind,  and  the  boys  of 
another,  and  the  children  kept  up  a  merry  laughter.  A 
little  girl  of  seven  or  eight  years  of  age  wore,  apron 
fashion,  a  banner  with  "The  Hope  of  the  Church,"  em- 
broidered upon  it ;  another,  a  banner  with  "Of  Such  is 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven."  They  were  fighting  over  a 
stick  of  candy.  I  inquired  of  the  man  whom  I  asked 
about  the  old  mason  why  the  children  wore  their  banners. 


290  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

He  said  that  some  time  before,  the  'minister  had  orga- 
nized a  Sunday  school,  and  some  lady  friend  of  his  had 
worked  the  banners  for  the  children's  classes.  The  Sun- 
day school  did  not  last  long,  however,  and  the  banners 
were  now  worn  by  the  children  upon  such  occasions  as 
this.  I  asked  him  if  they  belonged  to  the  two  who  now 
wore  them.  No,  he  said,  all  the  children  in  the  neigh- 
borhood took  it  turn  about  to  wear  them ,  and  it  was 
now  their  turn.  The  mottoes  seemed  so  incongruous 
upon  these  ignorant,  unenlightened  children,  that  I 
laughed  as  1  called  my  friend's  attention  to  them, and  he 
laughed  heartily  too. 

I  looked  around  for  Bill  to  call  his  attention  to  the 
children,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  so  I  went  out- 
side to  look  for  him,  and  found  him  lying  on  the  grass 
under  some  trees,  near  a  house  in  which  there  was  a 
light. 

* 'Bill,"  I  said,  "I  was  looking  for  you  a  few  mo- 
ments ago  to  show  you  a  ludicrous  sight." 

"The  sights  here  are  not  ludicrous  [to  me,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  left  them  because  they  were  revolting.  This 
is  no  way  for  human  beings  to  live.  It  disgusts  me  to 
see  it,  but  it  saddens  me  when  I  think  of  it  calmly." 

"There  is  hope  for  them.  Bill,"  I  said. 

"Yes;  there  was  hope  for  me." 

Just  then  a  woman  came  to  the  door,  and  I  asked 
her  if  we  might  come  in. 

"You  uns  ain't  tired  o'  the  party  this  time  o'  night, 
is  you?  We  uns  ain't  had  supper  yit;  we's  jes'  fixin'  it 
now." 

I  told  her  we  only  wanted  to  rest  a  few  minutes,  and 
would  go  back. 

"Well,  you  uns  kin  come  in." 

We  went  in  and  rested  while  she  bustled  around 
getting  supper  ready.  I  noticed  on  the  mantelpiece  a 
curious  mass  of  wheels,  and  asked  her  what  it  was. 

"Oh!  that's  we  uns'  clock,  you  know.  You  see, 
thar  war  er  man  come  through  here    sellin'     'm.     They 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  291 

had  wood  'round  'm,  an'  face  an'  hands  like  clocks  gin- 
er'ly  have,  an'  the  man  made  us  pay  er  whole  lot  o'  mo- 
ney, an'  said  we  could  pay  the  res'  whin  he  come  ag'in ; 
an'  er  year  arter  that  he  come  'round  an'  we  didn't  have 
no  more  money  fur  ter  give  him  fur  the  clock,  an'  he 
sed  he  wus  goin'  ter  take  it  thin ;  an'  so  I  tole  the  ole 
man  ter  take  him  out'n  the  field  an'  show  him  the  crap& 
an'  I'd  fix  the  matter,  'caze  we  warn't  a-goin'  ter  lose 
what  we'd  paid;  an'  while  they  wus  gone  I  knocked  the 
wheels  out.  Whin  they  come  back  I  tole  'm  they'd  bet- 
ter let  me  take  the  clock  down,  'caze  men  wus  so  keerles& 
like.  'It  got  broke  whin  you  put  it  up,'  I  said  ter  the 
man.  Me  an'  the  ole  man  holp  him  fix  it  up,  an'  he 
went  off.  'Bout  er  month  arter  that  he  come  back  an' 
wanted  his  pay  ennyhow.  I  hid  the  wheels  whin  I  saw 
him  comin',  an'  he  said  er  lot  had  treated  him  so  'bout 
clocks  an'  he  know'd  I  wus  one,  'caze  I  wus  so  keerful 
like  'bout  handlin'  the  wun  what  wus  here;  an'  I  know'd 
ef  er  lot  had  done  fooled  him  he  couldn't  fix  on  no  wun, 
an'  I  never  let  on.  Yes,  it  keeps  time,  but  it's  er  leetle 
inconvenient,  'caze  thar  ain't  no  hands  ter  p'int  it  out. 
We  jes'  know  by  the  tickin  it's  keepin'  time.  What 
you  say,  Jimmie?  Yes,  I'm  er  comin'  with  the  supper," 
as  some  one  called,  "Mam,  ain't  you  never  comin'?  We 
uns  is  most  starved." 

Bill  looked  at  me,  and  when  the  woman  was  out  of 
hearing  we  both  laughed  heartily.  Then  we  went  back 
to  the  building  where  the  party  was.  Three  or  four 
tables  had  been  spread,  and  everyone  was  making  ready 
to  partake  of  the  supper.  There  was  cabbage  boiled 
and  served  cold ;  potatoes  and  one  or  two  other  vegetables 
were  served  in  the  same  way.  The  meats  were  boiled,  too, 
and  the  pies  were  stacked  and  of  doubtful  character. 
The  cakes  were  covered  with  little  bits  of  candy.  The 
whole  was  not  inviting.  The  woman  I  had  just  been 
talking  to  brought  me  some  layer  cake  filled  with  molas- 
ses. I  tried  to  handle  it,  but  could  not.  The  people  of 
the  place  all  enjoyed  the  supper  very  much,  but  our  par- 


292  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

ty,  even  those  who  had  been  crackers,   did  not   seem  to 
relish  it  particularly. 

We  pitched  our  tents  that  night;  there  were  too 
many  of  us  to  stay  with  the  people.  We  remained  a 
part  of  the  next  day,  and  my  friend  and  I  visited  two  or 
three  families.  A  mother  was  Justin  the  act  of  punish- 
ing a  little  boy  when  w©  stopped  at  a  door,  and  we  hesi- 
tated about  going  in. 

"Jes'  come  right  'long  in.  He's  so  bad  I  have  ter 
whip  him  ever'  day.  'Tain'  no  owcommon  thing;  vis'- 
tors  don't  stop  fur  that." 

My  friend  thought  that  a  child  whipped  so  often 
must  be  hardened,  and  that  the  punishment  could  not 
be  effectual.  He  asked  the  mother  if  she  ever  punished 
him  in  any  other  way. 

"Won't  no  other  way  do,"  she  replied. 

"Let's  see,"  my  friend  said ;  and  he  asked  the  child's 
name.  "Johnny,  which  had  you  rather  for  your  mother 
to  do,  to  whip  you  now  or  to  be  mad  with  you  for  three 
weeks.?" 

"I'd  ruther  fur  her  ter  be  mad  with  me  fur  three 
weeks." 

We  all  laughed,  but  my  friend  and  I  spoke  after- 
wards of  how  these  cracker  children  are  raised,  and  how 
differently  another  child  might  have  felt,  though  the 
switches  looked  formidable.  He  asked  the  question,  he 
said,  to  suggest  to  the  woman  that  she,  more  than  the 
<jhild  was  to  blame. 

But  she  was  not  so  impressed  at  all.  She  only  said : 
*'He'd  better  gay  that;  he  knows  I  whip  hard." 

That  afternoon  we  started  on  our  return  trip  to  Wa- 
lesca. 

Bill,  Katherine,  and  I  went  home  when  the  week 
had  passed.  Bill  was  very  attentive  to  Katherine  that 
summer,  but  I  was  glad  for  him  to  be  with  her.  I  knew 
that  her  influence  over  him  was  good.  Sometimes,  though, 
I  would  find  myself  frowning  as  I  watched  them  to- 
gether. 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  29^ 

It  was  not  strange  that  Bill  liked  Katherine.  They 
had  been  together  a  great  deal,  and  she  had  always  sym- 
pathized with  and  aided  him  much.  At  Christmas  the 
year  before,  he  sent  my  wife  a  lovely  present,  simple  and 
delicate,  and  wrote  her  a  beautiful  letter;  he  was  a 
thoughtful  boy.  This  year,  at  Christmastide,  he  sent 
a  picture  of  himself.  It  seemed  a  little  strange.  I  told 
Katherine  he  had  better  have,  sent  it  to  me  or  to  the 
household. 

"Why,  father,  I  do  not  regard  it  in  that  way,"  she 
said;   "Bill  and  1  are  nearly  the    same    age.     We  have 
been    together  much,  and  our   interests    have  been  the 
same.    It  is  very  common  for  young  people  to  exchange 
pictures." 

"Do  you  expect  to  send  Bill  your  picture?"  I 
asked. 

"I  had  thought  of  it,"  she  replied. 

How  angry  I  was  ! 

"I  object  to  that,"  I  said;  and  Katherine  did  not 
send  the  picture. 

She  h&&  corresponded  with  Bill  for  some  time.  To 
this  I  had  not  objected;  I  thought  it  helpful  to  Bill  and 
not  hurtful  to  Katherine.  She  often  showed  me  his  let- 
ters, and  I  enjoyed  them ;  but  now  I  began  to  feel  that 
their  correspondence  was  not  best.  It  could  not  be 
stopped,  though;  I  could  not  consent  to  Katherine's 
treating  Bill  unkindly. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

The  next  year  Bill  graduated  from  Union  Theologi- 
-cal  Seminary,  and  was  given  a  good  charge  for  a  young 
man,  in  the  Methodist  Church  in  Georgia.  He  accom- 
plished a  wonderful  work  for  his  church  that  year, 
made  "the  waste  places  blossom  as  a  rose,"  through  his 
active  eiforts. 

He  consulted  me  about  taking  his  mother  to  where 
lie  preached,  so  that  she  might  be  more  comfortable  than 
she  could  be  at  Walesca,  but  I  advised  him  not  to  do  it. 
The  educational  advantages  at  Walesca  were  better,  and 
I  thought  she  had  better  keep  the  children  there  until 
educated.  He  did  as  much  as  he  could  for  his  mother  at 
home,  and  paid  off  all  the  debts,  with  great  personal 
sacrifice. 

The  first  year  of  his  ministry,  Katherine  graduate  d 
from  Wellesley.  She  had  improved  very  much  in  other 
things  than  book-lore.  Her  womanhood  had  further  de- 
veloped, and  she  was  stronger  and  more  lovely  than  ever 
before.  Katherine  had  all  her  life  been  loved  by  young 
and  old,  and  when  I  would  allow  it  she  had  much  atten- 
tion from  young  men;  but  she  had  never  seemed  to  care 
especially  for  such  attention,  and  had  never  shown  a 
preference  for  any  young  man  except  when  I  thought 
she  cared  for  my  friendat  Walesca. 

During  his  summer  vacation  that  year  Bill  spent  two 
weeks  with  us.  He  gave  himself  up  entirely  to  rest  and 
recreation.  Katherine  gave  up  to  these,  too.  After  her 
year's  hard  work  in  college  she  ne6ded  ease  and  pleas- 
ure. The  two  rode  together,  went  boating,  and  engaged 
in  other  enjoyments.  I  was  glad  to  see  them  refreshed 
And  brightened  by  the   summer  delights,   but  now  and 

S94 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CltACKERS  295 

then,  when  I   saw   them   together,  the  old  frown  would 
come  to  my  face,  and  1  looked  away  impatiently. 

At  last,  one  night.  Bill  came  to  my  study  and 
knocked.  It  was  late,  and  I  was  about  to  leave  my  work 
for  the  night.  Katherine  had  left  the  parlor  long  before, 
and  I  had  heard  Bill  pacing  up  and  down  the  front 
gallery. 

"Come  in,"  I  said;  and  he  quietly  opened  the 
door. 

*'Sit  down,"  I  said,  "and  rest  me  before  I  go  to  my 
room,  so  that  my  dreams  may  be  peaceful  instead  of  the 
Incubus  of  business  worry  that  oppresses  me  at  night.' 
He  looked  at  me  intently.  "Yes,  I  am  growing  old ; 
the  signs  of  years  and  troubles  both  mark  my  hair  and 
brow.  But  do  not  remind  me  of  it;  I  would  have  lighter 
thoughts  now." 

"WouM  that  you  could  have  them  always!"  he  an- 
swered, feelingly. 

"No  that  would  not  be  well.  It  is  better  to  be  op- 
pressed sometimes.  But  you  look  burdened,  too,  to- 
night.    What  is  the  matter?" 

"You  are  right;  I  am  troubled  to-night." 

"Unburden  your  heart,"  I  said;  "it  will  do  mine 
good  to  share  your  cares." 

"You  have  shared  them  for  years,"  he  answered, 
"and  there  is  little  I  would  keep  from  you;  but  to-night, 
when  I  come  to  speak  to  you  of  what  fills  my  mind,  I  feel 
a  greater  hesitancy  than  I  have  ever  felt  before  in  speak- 
ing to  anyone." 

"Feel  no  hesitancy.  Bill.  Know  that  your  interests 
are  always  mine,  your  joys  lighten  my  life,  and  your 
troubles  are  mine." 

"Have  I  spoken  of  this  as  trouble?"  he  asked.  "I 
am  not  myself.  Out  of  it  I  hope  may  come  the  greatest 
joy  of  ray  life.  I  have  come  to  you  to-night  to  ask  the 
right  to  care  for  your  daughter.  I  do  care  for  her  more 
than  everything  else  in  life,  and  I  ask  your  permission 
to  address  her." 


296  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

I  arose  impatiently;  I  was  very  angry.  My  first 
impulse,  I  regret  to  say,  wag  to  knock  him  down.  The 
idea  of  the  cracker  boy  whom  I  had  brought  from  ignor- 
ance, abject  poverty,  rags,  and  splinter-gathering  to  his^ 
present  state,  having  labored  with  him  and  for  him  for 
years,  repaying  me  in  this  way!  And  then  the  thought 
came:  "You  have  proved  his  excellence  and  found  him 
worthy  of  your  daughter!"  Worthy?  How  could  he 
be.?  I  thought  of  the  boy  of  eight  years  before,  poorer 
in  mind  than  in  material  estate — the  son  of  old 
James  Collins.  I  thought  of  that  old  man  as  my  daugh- 
ter's father-in-law,  of  the  children  as  her  brothers,  of 
the  home  as  her  home,  of  his  mother,  who  could  never 
be  anything  but  Mrs.  Collins. 

"You  do  not  speak;  I  am  embarrassed,"  he  said. 

*  'You  cannot  be  more  embarrassed  than  I  am, ' '  I  an- 
swered. 

"Whatever  my  unworthiness,  I  am  at  least  entitled 
to  an  answer,"  he  said. 

"Pardon  me,  Bill;  you  are  entitled  to  an  answer, 
and  I  should  have  spoken  sooner,  but  I  was  entitled  to 
think.   These   things  cannot  be  answered  in  a  moment.' ' 

"You  are  right, "  he  said;  "they  do  require  thought ; 
I  was  too  impatient." 

"How  long  have  you  cared  for  Katherine?"  I 
asked. 

"Since  the  night  I  told  you  that  I  no  longer  cared 
for  Mol.  I  realized  then  for  the  first  time  that  I  cared 
H  great  deal  for  your  daughter,  and  since  that  time  the 
feeling  has  steadily  increased,  making  itself  more  and 
more  evident  to  me,  until  now  I  am  conscious  of  a  last- 
ing devotion.  I  would  not  speak  of  it  before  because  I 
was  not  worthy  of  Miss  Katherine ;  but  I  have  labored 
hard  and  long  to  bring  my  life  to  some  measure  of 
worthiness,  not  for  her,  but  to  be  a  man;  and  yet  in  all 
my  efforts  I  have  thought  of  her.  I  am  now  able  to  sup- 
port her,  not  as  she  should  be  supported,  but  in  some 
comfort.     My   debts   are   all  paid,  and  my  mother  and 


DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  297 

brothers  are  in  a  better  condition  than  they  have  ever 
been.  The  children  will  soon  be  educated,  and  can  take 
care  of  themselves;  mother  alone  will  be  left  me  to  sup- 
port. I  thought  you  had  learned  my  feelings  before 
this  and  had  thought  over  the  matter,  but  since  you 
have  EOt,  I  will  say  no  more  to-night.  I  beg  you  to 
think  of  me  as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  to  answer  me 
when  you  will." 

He  rose  to  retire.  "Do  not  go,"  I  said;  **we  must 
talk  over  this  matter  a  little  longer  just  now,  and  I  will 
answer  you  later.     Have  you  told  Katherine  of  this?" 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  would  not  tell  her  until  I 
had  spoken  to  you." 

Bill  was  certainly  a  man  of  correct  feeling.  This 
had  always  been  the  old-school  way,  and  we  old  men  are 
apt  to  think  that  better.     I  thanked  him. 

"Bill,  will  you  pardon  me  if  I  speak  very  plainly? 
It  is  my  way  of  speaking  and  you  will  understand  it,  I 
think?" 

He  insisted  on  my  saying  just  what  I  felt. 

"Then,  Bill,  I  think  you  have  made  a  great  mistake. 
Allow  me  to  repeat  to  you  what  I  have  often  said:  you 
are  wrong  in  not  loving  Mol." 

He  flushed  crimson.  "You  have  a  perfect  right  to 
object  to  my  caring  for  your  daughter,  but  in  kindness 
tome,  do  not  speak  again  of  Mollie  Smith.  My  love  for 
her  was  a  fancy  of  boyhood,  and  has  passed." 

"It  was  a  fancy  that  lasted  twenty  years,  and 
though  you  insist  that  it  was  only  fancy,  I  think  that 
you  may  yet  find  that  it  was  real." 

"Never;  and  I  ask  you  again,  please,  not  to  men- 
tion it.  I  came  to  you  to-night  to  speak  of  Miss 
Katherine.     If  you  will  not  speak  of  her,  I  must  go." 

He  was  angry,   and  I  grew  angry  too. 

"Bill,  you  force  me  to  speak  more  plainly  than  I 
cared  to.  Do  you  not  see  that  I  have  a  reason  for 
thinking  it  best  that  you  should  care  for  Mol?  There 
are    indeed  two  reasons :  it  is  your  duty  to  her    after 


298  DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS 

twenty  years  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  both,  and 
when  j'ou  do  not  know  that  she  does  not  care  for 
you  still;  and  you  are  from  the  same  people,  the 
same  place,  the  same  life.  I  would  not  hurt  you,  Bill, 
but  do  you  not  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to 
marry  one  of  your  home  girls?" 

**Do  you  mock  me  like  this?"  he  asked.  "Have 
all  your  efforts  for  me  and  my  people  been  a  mock- 
ery? I  believed  you  when  you  said  you  were  trying 
to  elevate  us  and  bring  us  into  a  new  and  better  life. 
Now  you  tell  me  I  must  ever  be  tied  to  the  old  one. 
You  have  brought  me  to  where  I  can  see  and  wish 
for  the  highest  and  best  life,  and  say,  'Thus  far  and 
no  farther.'  I  am  glad  that  jou  have,  at  least,  shown 
me  the  Christ,  who  taunts  me  with  no  binding  link  to 
the  past,  and  promises  that  heaven  shall  not  be  a  place 
of  social  castes." 

"You  speak  bitterly." 

"My  speech  does  not  belie  my  feelings.  You  must 
regard  me  as  a  man  now  rather  than  a  minister,  if  you 
consider  my  feelings  as  a  reflection  upon  my  sacred 
calling.  You  have  touched  the  quick,  and  it  quivers." 
*'I  am  sorry,  indeed,  to  have  hurt  you,  Bill,"  I 
said;  "I  love  you  next  to  my  own  family,  and  I  admire 
you  more  than  my  modesty  will  permit  me  to  say.  I 
have  been  too  blunt ;  forgive  me ;  but  when  you  are  your- 
self you  will  understand  me  better  and  know  that  I  did 
not  mean  to  wound  you." 

"I  believe  now  that  you  did  not,  but  this  is  a  mat- 
ter that  cannot  be  touched  without  heart-quivers.  Re- 
garding this  affair  as  you  do,  I  feel  that  you  expect  and 
deserve  an  apology  for  my  presumption ;  but  feeling  as 
I  do,  I  shall  not  withdraw  my  request,  except  to  trans- 
fer it  from  you  to  Miss  Katherine.  I  hope  she  will  feel 
differently." 

"I  meant  to  tell  you  to  do  that,  Bill.  Speak  to 
Katherine.  Whatever  her  feeling  is,  I  shall  abide  by  it. 
After  all,  it  is  a  matter  that  can  be  between  you  two 
only." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  299 

He  started  towards  the  door,  and  I  caught  his  arm : 
*'Bill,  if  all  your  people  had  become  what  you  are,  it 
would  be  very  different  with  me  now.  Remember,  this 
is  not  a  personal  quarrel." 

"It  cannot  be  anything  else,  since  I  am  more  in- 
volved in  its  consequences  than  anyone  else." 

"I  cannot  talk  any  longer  with  you  now;  the  con- 
versation would  only  continue  to  be  a  battle ;  but  what- 
ever comes,  remember  this :  I  love  you  and  always 
shall." 

I  put  my  arm  around  his  shoulder.  He  did  not  re- 
spond to  the  touch  or  the  words.  As  he  went  out  ho 
said  simply,  "Good-night." 

I  heard  him  go  down  the  front  steps  and  out  of  the 
yard.  I  started  to  call  him  back,  but  nothing  that  I 
could  have  said  would  have  helped  the  matter  that  night. 
It  was  best  for  him  to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts,  for 
me  to  be  alone  with  mine. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  I  heard  Bill  come  in.  His 
coming  aroused  me,  and  I  heard  the  clock  strike.  I  had 
not  left  the  table,  but  with  head  bowed  upon  my  hand, 
had  sat  through  the  hours  thinking,  thinking,  until  my 
brain  seemed  nearing  dissolution.  When  I  went  to  my 
room,  daylight  had  come. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

I  wrote  to  Bill  and  aeked  him  to  remain  with  us  a 
week  longer,  and  to  withhold  his  addresses  to  Katherine 
for  that  time,  when  I  thought  we  should  both  feel 
calmer  over  the  matter.  He  answered  very  sweetly,  and 
said  that  he  intended  to  see  me  again  before  he  ad- 
dressed Katherine,  and  had  now  fully  made  up  hi& 
mind  not  to  address  her  at  all  without  my  consent. 
I  talked  the  matter  over  with  my  wife,  and  she  felt  as  I 
did.  We  both  loved  and  admired  Bill,  but  we  did  not 
think  it  best  for  Katherine  to  marry  him.  My  wife 
thought  I  had  been  wrong  in  speaking  so  plainly  to  him, 
and  perhaps  I  had,  but  plain  speech  seemed  to  me  nec- 
essary. Before  the  end  of  the  week  I  went  to  Walesca 
to  consult  my  friend.  1  found  him  at  home  and  glad  ta 
see  me,  but  surprised. 

"Well,  old  fellow,  what  has  brought  you?"  he 
asked.  "I  feared  you  had  deserted  the  cracker  in  dis- 
gust after  the  party  we  attended  some  time  ago." 

"Nothing  at  that  party  disgusted  me  half  so  much 
as  what  has  happened  lately.  If  anything  could  cause 
me  to  desert  the  crackers,  I  think  this  would." 

"Why,  what  has  happened?"  he  asked.  "1  wa& 
only  joking  about  the  party's  disgusting  you.  I  thought 
you  were  proof  against  anything  of  the  kind." 

"I  labored  here  five  years,  with  many  trials  and 
dangers,  but  was  not  hurt  by  the  whole  experience  as  I 
have  been  by  one  of  a  few  moments  lately."  And  I 
told  what  had  happened.  *'To  think  that  my  eflPorts- 
for  the  crackers  should  end  in  this  way  !  Time,  money ,^ 
strength,  all  gone  on  their  account,  and  this  is  my 
reward." 

300 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  301 

"It  is  a  very  great  reward  if  you  have  been  able  to 
lift  one  of  those  people  to  a  plane  with  yourself.  Bill 
is  certainly  a  w^onderful  man.  Not  only  in  the  Confer- 
ence of  his  Church  is  he  so  regarded,  but  some  of  our 
ablest  preachers  refer  to  him.  I  understand  how  you 
feel  about  his  origin  and  his  connections,  but  I  think  you 
are  wrong.     You  should  regard  only  the  man  himself." 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  I  was  shocked  at 
the  idea  of  the  matter ;  but  when  I  saw  him  I  vv^as  more 
shocked  at  his  appearance.  He  was  as  pale  as  death, 
and  his  face  wore  the  most  peculiar  expression  I  had 
•ever  seen  on  it.     I  forgot  for  a  moment  my  trouble. 

•'You  are  sick,"  I  said.  "Let  me  do  something  for 
you." 

"No,  it  is  nothing. — But  about  Bill,  you  are  wrong. 
Personal  worth  is  the  only  consideration  of  weight. 
The  unpleasant  connections  need  not  be  thought  of  ser- 
iously. His  brothers  will  all  soon  be  educated,  except 
the  married  one ;  he  would  be  the  only  thorn  in  the 
flesh.  His  mother  will  not  live  long.  Association  with 
you  and  your  family  would  soon  elevate  the  entire  fam- 
ily very  much.  Come,  do  not  look  so  gloomy.  Let  me 
tell  you  the  only  thing  to  do.  Allow  Miss  Katherine  to 
decide  this.  She  is  the  proper  one  to  do  it.  Do  you 
think  she  cares  for  Bill?" 

"I  am  afraid  so,  and  that  is  why  I  want  to  prevent 
his  addressing  her.  I  am  afraid  she  cares  for  him  with- 
out knowing  it,  and  that  his  declaring  himself  would 
call  attention  to  her  own  feelings." 

"Well,  come  what  may,  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  best  to 
leave  it  to  them  entirely." 

I  left  immediately,  and  when  I  said  good-bye  and 
thanked  him  for  his  counsel,  he  replied : 

"There  are  other  things  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you  of,  but  not  now.  Let  me  know  how  this  affair 
ends.  Whatever  comes,  I  do  not  think  you  need  worry. 
Bill  is  a  very  excellent  man,  and  many  a  father  in  high 
position  would  be  glad  to  have  him  for  a  son-in-law." 


302  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

**I  am  not  a  judge  of  what  would  be  gratifying  to 
other  men,''  I  said;  "I  only  know  what  would  please 
me,  or  rather,  what  would  not  please  me." 

When  I  reached  home  the  week  was  nearly  out,  and 
all  of  our  household  looked  troubled  except  Katharine, 
Bill,  I  knew,  was  staying  only  at  my  request.  He 
looked  ill  at  ease.  1  sent  for  Katherine  that  night  when, 
the  rest  of  the  household  had  retired. 

* 'Katherine,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  I 
trust  that  your  feelings  about  it  will  dispel  my  gloomy 
thoughts." 

"What  is  it,  father?  I  have  noticed  for  several 
days  how  depressed  and  sad  you  and  mother  look.  Is 
there  other  business  worry?  That  will  not  depress  me, 
I  have  grown  used  to  it ;  and,  do  you  know,  father, 
I  have  thought  that  it  would  be  best  for  me  to  become 
self-supporting?     You  are  so  burdened  now." 

"It  is  the  fear  that  I  may  soon  not  have  to  support 
you  that  is  oppressing  me  now.  Our  good  friend,  Bill, 
has  come  to  me  with  a  request.  He  has  cared  for  you 
for  years,  he  says,  and  he  now  asks  the  right  to  tell  you 
bo.  Katherine,  let  there  be  no  reserve  between  you  and 
me.  Tell  me  plainly  your  feelings  towards  Bill.  Do 
you  care  for  him?" 

"I  have  never  had  the  right  to  think  of  caring  for 
him,  father.  Do  you  remember  a  little  trouble  we  had 
about  a  matter  like  this  once  before?" 

"I  remember  it  well.  Katherine,  you  have  never 
had  the  right  to  think  of  Bill  before,  but  now,  since  he 
has  given  you  the  right,  do  you  care  for  him?  I  shall 
give  my  consent  to  his  asking  you ;  and  I  speak  to  you 
now  that  you  may  have  time  to  think  before  he  comes  to 
you." 

She  left  me  with  a  blush  upon  her  cheeks  and  a 
strange  light  in  her  eyes.  The  next  night,  before  tea, 
I  sent  for  Bill. 

"You  have  my  full  consent  to  speak  to  Katherine 
now,  and,  whatever  comes,  know  that  my  love  and 
my  blessing  are  with  you." 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  303 

He  came  back  after  he  had  seen  Katherine. 

"She  will  not  think  of  an  engagement  now,  though 
ihe  has  consented  to  my  caring  for  her,  and  promises  to 
think  of  responding  to  my  love  some  day." 

I  felt  somewhat  relieved  to  know  that  no  engage- 
ment had  been  made. 

The  next  night,  after  Bill  had  gone  home,  Kather- 
ine stole  into  my  room  and  said : 

"Father,  I  love  him  better  than  life,  but  I  am 
afraid  you  and  mother  will  not  consent  to  our  marriage. 
You  might  consent  formally  for  my  sake,  but  in  your 
hearts  you  would  never  feel  satisfied  to  have  it  so.  I 
know  how  you  feel.  I  know  you  do  not  think  Bill  worthy 
of  such  a  marriage;  but  he  is  more  than  worthy;  and 
as  far  as  his  people  are  concerned,  that  would  not 
trouble  me  at  all." 

"I  cannot  help  my  feelings,  Katherine.  This  pro- 
posal is  the  most  indelicate  thing  I  ever  knew  Bill  to 
be  guilty  of.  If  he  loved  you  he  should  never  have 
said  so ;  but  now  that  he  has,  your  happiness  is  the 
highest  consideration,  and  if  you  care  for  him,  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  marry  him." 

Weeks  went  by.  Katherine  would  not  consent  to 
an  engagement.  It  was  best  to  wait,  she  said.  At  last 
she  wrote,  withdrawing  her  promise  to  care  for  him. 
I  was  miserable.  I  felt  sometimes  that  I  should  be 
really  glad  if  Katherine  would  marry  Bill ;  it  would  re- 
lieve me.  And  when  I  saw  how  pale  and  unhappy  she 
looked  I  felt  for  the  second  time  in  my  life  that  I  was 
almost  a  child  murderer.  To  her  letter  Bill  replied  that 
he,  too,  thought  it  was  best  that  they  should  not  care 
for  each  other,  and  while  his  aflPection  yet  remained  he 
would  endeavor  to  repress  it,  and  never  speak  of  it  to 
her  again. 

He  wrote  to  me  also  :  "It  would  be  painful  to  go 
into  a  detailed  explanation  of  my  feelings.  I  will 
simply  say  this:  I  understand  you  now,  and  you  are 
perfectly  right.     I  withdraw  all  that  I  said  to  you,  and 


304  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

instead  of  the  request  I  made  of  you  once,  I  now  ask 
that  what  has  passed  be  forgotten,  and  that  we  be  the 
same  cordial,  sincere  friends  as  of  yore.  I  shall  forget 
my  presumption  if  I  can,  but  the  hope  that  once  pos- 
sessed me  has  become  a  part  of  my  life,  and  whatever 
comes  in  the  future  neither  Miss  Katherine  nor  I  can 
help  the  fact  that  my  nature  has  been  purified  because  I 
once  thought  of  loving  her." 

I  did  not  show  Katherine  this  letter.  I  thought  it 
would  make  her  more  unhappy  than  she  really  was. 
When  I  told  her  of  the  letter  a  kind  of  sickening  flush 
came  to  her  cheeks,  succeeded  by  that  deathlike  pallor 
that  always  betrays  the  heart's  feelings;  but  after  a 
week  or  two  she  seemed  relieved  and  regained  her  wont- 
ed serenity  of  mind. 

I  wrote  to  my  friend,  "Katherine  seems  bright  and 
cheery  again,"  and  he  came  to  see  me. 

"What  happy  thought  possessed  you  to  come  and 
see  a  gloomy  old  man?  Our  family  is  just  getting  over 
a  long  depression  on  account  of  Katherine  and  Bill,  and 
I  have  not  fully  recovered  yet." 

"I  came  to  be  cheered  myself,"  he  said.  "I  have 
a  request  to  make  of  you,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  be  as 
unkind  to  me  as  you  were  to  Bill.  Can  I  speak  to  Miss 
Katherine?" 

"Your  abruptness  completely  disconcerts  me,  else 
my  brain  is  duller  that  I  thought.  What  can  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean  what  Bill  meant,  only  I  am  bolder  than 
he ;  I  would  tell  Miss  Katherine  of  my  feeling  for  her 
when  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  she  does  not  even  yet 
love  another  man." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  you  care  for  Katherine?" 

"Care  for  her!  You  are  the  blindest  mortal  I  ever 
saw.  I  have  loved  her  for  years.  I  could  not  speak  of 
my  affection  when  she  was  my  pupil.  Since  then  my 
broken  fortune  has  not  allowed  me  to  do  it  until  last 
year,  when  the  school  began  to  be  self  supporting,  and  I 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  305 

felt  that  I  could  take  care  of  her.  I  was  thinking  of 
mentioning  the  matter  to  you  when  you  came  to  tell  me 
about  Bill." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  you  have  cared  for  Kath- 
erine  so  long,  and  that  you  had  just  thought  of  address- 
ing her  yourself  when  you  advised  me  to  let  Bill  press 
his  suit?" 

"I  have  loved  her  since  before  you  took  her  from 
school  years  ago.  I  thought  then  that  you  suspected  it 
and  feared  to  trust  me  not  to  address  her,  and  I  was 
thoroughly  indignant.  When  you  came  to  speak  to  me 
of  Bill  I  could  not  speak  of  myself.  It  almost  broke  my 
heart  when  you  wrote  to  me  that  Miss  Katherine  cared 
for  Bill,  and  when  your  last  letter  came,  I  determined 
to  tell  her  my  feelings  at  once,  with  your  permission. 
May  I  speak  with  her?" 

"With  all  my  heart;  and  my  richest  benediction  go 
with  you.  I  will  not  tell  Katherine  what  she  may  ex- 
pect, ae  I  did  with  Bill,  but  let  you  surprise  her.  I 
think  you  will  find  her  in  the  summer-house.  She  often 
sits  there  after  tea.  Bring  her  in,  please,  the  October 
nights  are  getting  cool." 

I  heard  them  go  in  the  parlor,  Katherine  talk- 
ing gaily.  I  went  in  to  tell  my  wife  what  had  hap- 
pened and  we  rejoiced  together;  my  friend  was  just 
such  a  man  as  I  had  alw^ays  wanted  Katherine  to  marry. 
Not  that  he  was  better  than  Bill,  but  he  was  different, 
I  loved  them  both,  but  I  thought  of  them  differently. 
My  friend  and  Katherine  came  to  us. 
"I  have  won  her,"  he  said. 

"Father  and  mother,  I  am  sure  this  is  better.  I 
never  felt  that  I  loved  Bill  as  I  love  now.  I  am  sure  my 
feeling  for  him  was  not  real,  though  I  thought  then  that 
it  was," 

"Yes,  this  is  better,"  I  said,  "and  we  are  all  hap- 
pier. Even  Bill  will  be  glad  to  know  it.  My  dear  fel- 
low," I  said  to  my  friend,  "I  have  always  felt  guilty  of 
a  mean  thing  when  I  have  thought  of  having  objected 


306  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

to  Katherine  marrying  Bill  on  account  of    his  connec- 
tions ;   it  showed  a  weak  point  in  my  character." 

"You  are  unjust  to  yourself,"  he  said;  "it  was  not 
so  much  an  actual  distaste  for  the  connection  as  an  in- 
explicable sense  of  unfitness,  which  was  natural  and 
right." 

It  was  decided  that  our  daughter,  should  marry  the 
next  spring.  It  had  been  a  long  while  since  Holmes's 
death,  but  none  of  us  felt  like  having  a  gay  wedding,  so 
the  marriage  was  quiet.  It  was  in  the  little  home  church 
where  Katherine  and  Holmes  had  been  christened.  Bill 
officiated. 

"Strange  for  a  man  to  officiate  at  the  marriage  of 
his  sweetheart !"  he  laughingly  said,  **but  such  is  the 
mockery  of  life  sometimes." 

I  wondered  if  he  still  felt  a  pang  of  bitterness ;  I  am 
sure  he  felt  great  tenderness,  for  after  the  ceremony 
was  over  I  saw  him  brush  a  stray  tear  from  his  cheek. 

The  bridal  party  went  off  for  the  usual  tour,  and  my 
wife  and  I  went  home  with  feelings  of  joy  and  sorrow 
commingled. 

"We  shall  live  the  rest  of  our  lives  alone  ,"  I  said, 
"but  there  is  love  enough  yet  to  fill  all  vacancies  and 
make  life  beautiful  to  its  close." 

The  roses  had  gone  from  her  cheeks,  the  freshness 
from  her  brow,  but  in  their  stead  character  had  drawn 
its  picture  in  lines  more  beautiful  than  the  pencilings  on 
an  evening  sky,  and  she  seemed  more  lovely  to  me  than 
in  all  the  years  that  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

That  fall  my  wife  and  I  went  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
with  our  children  at  Walesca.  Their  home  was  as  sweet 
and  beautiful  as  such  lives  make  homes.  The  people 
were  rejoiced  at  the  marriage.  They  came  to  see  my 
wife  and  me,  and  I  took  her  to  see  many  of  them.  Their 
life  had  changed  wonderfully.  They  were  becoming  a 
cultured  people. 

Kittie  McCabe  and  Bobbie  Sims  were  almost  grown, 
and  that  year  would  finish  school.  It  seemed  very  strange 
to  me,  but  I  had  not  lived  at  Walesca  for  five  years. 

We  went  to  see  the  berry- picker  and  his  wife,  and 
the  old  man  was  more  rheumatic  than  ever.  I  feared 
the  drawn  form  would  soon  break,  and  asked  him  of  his 
life  and  his  hopes  for  the  future. 

"No  use  ter  talk  'bout  that  now;  it's  all  settled. 
Ain't  you  never  heard  'bout  it?  How  slow  folks  is  ter 
tell  things.  Yes,  I  have  been  er  Christian  nigh  on  ter  er 
year  now,  an'  Betsey's  wun  too.  Seems  as  how  we're  all 
happier  than  we  used  ter  be." 

The  boy,  their  heart's  joy  and  pride,  was  a  fine  fel- 
low six  years  old. 

"Goin'  ter  send  him  ter  school  nex'  year,  an'  hope 
he'll  do  as  well  as  Bobby  Sims,"  Miss  Betsey  said. 

"1  am  sure  he  will, Miss  Betsey,"  I  replied. 

"He'll  soon  be  all  I've  got.  Jane  an'  Ann's  gone 
long  ago,  an'  the  ole  man  can't  be  here  many  more  days.'* 

From  the  berry-picker's  we  went  to  see  Mol's  moth- 
er. Mrs.  Smith  was  feeble,  and  looked  much  older  than 
when  I  had  seen  her  last,  but  she  was  cheerful  and 
bright. 

"Mol'll  be  home  in  er  year,"  she  said,  "an'  she's 
307 


SOS  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

goin'  ter  take  me  ter  live  with  her,  wharever  she  is. 
She's  doin'  well  'nough,  she  says.  The  onlie^t  thing,  I 
hates  leavin'  the  ole  place;  'tain't  much — mighty  leetle 
scrap  o'  er  farm,  but  it's  been  home  er  long  time,  you 
know;  'pears  ter  me  like  it  won't  be  nat'ral  nowhar 
else  ;  but  ef  Mol  kin  do  better,  I'm  anything  fur  her. 
She's  sech  er  good  gal,  Mol  is ;  sends  me  ten  dollars  ever' 
month,  an'  takes  keer  o'  Becky  Jane  fur  stayin'  with  me. 
Ain't  many  gals  like  Mol." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is  now?"  I  asked. 

"Naw,  not  yit.  Mol  says  's  how  she'll  tell  me  all 
'bout  it  whin  she  comes,  an'  I'll  be  glad  she's  done  like 
she  is." 

My  wife  liked  Mrs.  Smith  and  Mrs.  Collins,  both. 
''Simple,  honest  souls,"  she  said;  ''some  day  they  will 
attain  a  higher  life." 

Mrs.  McCabe  and  my  wife  became  great  friends; 
Mrs.  McCabe  looked  like  a  different  woman  now.  She 
was  the  only  one  of  the  crackers  who  looked  younger  to 
me,  unless  it  was  her  husband.  But  she  was  really  not  a 
cracker;  she  came  from  more  cultured  people.  The 
new  life  was  like  renewed  life  to  her.  The  baby  was  now 
a  healthy  boy  of  seven. 

"He's  in  school  an' I'arnin'  fast,"  hisjfather  said,an' 
he  'pears  so  much  happier  an'  more  cheerful  'n  the  other 
chillun  used  ter." 

One  afternoon  Katherine  and  I  went  to  the  moun- 
tain. We  talked  there  for  some  time  while  we  sat  on 
the  -white  cliffs,  and  then  went  to  the  lonely  grave.  The 
old  man  came  after  a  while.  He  was  very  feeble  now. 
He  stopped  twice  to  rest,  and  when  he  reached  us  he  was 
exhausted. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Brown?"  I  asked. 

"I  ain't  very  peart  these  days;  seems  like  I'm 
wearin'  out;  'twon't  be  long,  I  reckin,  'till  I'll  go  too. 
May's  mam'U  be  more  lonesome  then  ;  won't  be  nobody 
ter  look  arter  her,  though  111  leave  her  plenty  ter  keep 
her  kinder  comfort'ble.     Please,  Mr.  Ramla,    ef    enny- 


DOWN   AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  309 

thing  should  happen,  an'  I  should  be  tuk  off  suddent, 
please  tell  her  how  I've  tried  ter  keep  the  bes'  keer  of 
her  I  could,  an'  I've  saved  up  er  leetle  money.  You'll 
find  it  in  er  ole  sock  right  in  the  straw  o'  my  bed,  an'  I 
hope  she'll  be  contented  till  May  comes  fur  her." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Brown;  but  you  are  sad  this  even- 
ing.    Cheer  up  and  see  life  in  a  better  light." 

"Naw;  'tain't  'caze  I'm  extra  sad;  but  I  feel  kinder 
cur'us.     I  dunno  what's  goin'  ter  happen." 

He  arose,  gathered  some  flowers,  covered  the  grave, 
and  made  it  look  as  I  had  seen  it  many  times  before,  like 
a  beautiful  bouquet.  He  stood  over  the  grave  looking 
down  for  a  moment,  and  then  in  an  ecstacy  of  joy,  threw 
up  his  hands  and  his  head. 

"The  Saviour !"  he  exclaimed,  and  fell  heavily 
across  the  grave. 

We  felt  that  his  fears  were  removed,  and  that  he 
had  gone  to  be  with  little  May. 

Katherine  went  to  break  the  news  to  May's  mother, 
and  I  to  find  help  to  take  him  to  his  home  for  the  last 
time  he  should  enter  it.  A  coroner's  jury  was  deemed 
unnecessary,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  All  in  connection 
with  his  death  should  be  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  hi& 
life  had  been. 

The  next  afternoon  at  sunset,  when  the  mild  beam& 
of  that  hour  fall  softly  on  all,  aad  on  this  day  shot  down 
into  the  tomb  to  lighten  it,  we  laid  him  to  rest  beside 
May.  Then  there  were  two  graves  on  the  mountain,  and 
both  were  covered  with  flowers. 

I  told  the  mother  what  the  old  man  had  said,  and 
found  for  her  in  the  straw  of  the  bed  the  sock  with  its 
treasure.  It  contained  five  hundred  dollars,  which  hard 
labor  had  earned.  He  must  have  sacrificed  much  to 
save  it. 

We  all  tried  to  comfort  and  cheer  the  mother,  but 
we  felt,  as  she  did,  that  not  many  years  would  pass  be- 
fore she  would  go  to  meet  her  children. 

"The  money's  er  power  too  much  fur  me,"  sha 
said;   "I  won't  live  ter  pay  it  out." 


CHAPTER  L. 

Not  long  after  the  old  man's  death  Bill  came  to 
Walesca  with  new  plans  and  hopes  for  himself  and  for 
the  world. 

The  crackers  of  the  eection  \^here  we  had  gone  to  a 
party  some  years  before  heard  that  he  was  at  Walesca, 
and  invited  him  to  come  and  assist  in  conducting  a  camp- 
meeting.  They  also  invited  my  son-in-law;  and  he, 
Katherine,  Bill  and  I  went. 

The  crackers  had  pitched  a  tent  and  built  an  arbor; 
also  some  log-huts  instead  of  comfortable  cottages,  and 
entertained  in  them ;  and  it  happened  that  we  were  in- 
vited to  stay  with  the  woman  who  had  met  us  the  night 
of  the  party. 

"So  you  uns  is  come  ter  we  uns  meetin'?  We  uns  is 
glad  you  uns  is  come;  jes'  walk  in  and  make  yourselves 
at  home.     I  hope  you  uns  will  enjoy  the  meetin.'  " 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  we  retired  early  that  we 
might  be  fresh  for  the  Sabbath  service.  I  arose  early 
the  next  morning,  but  the  cracker  girls  and  boys  were  up 
before  me,  the  former  preparing  breakfast,  the  latter 
impatiently  waiting  to  partake  of  it.  There  is  only  one 
time  of  the  year  at  which  a  cracker  boy  rises  early,  and 
that  is  during  camp-meeting. 

The  boys  were  lounging  around,  discussing  the  hopes 
of  day,but  these  were  not  of  a  religious  character.  They 
expected  to  see  their  sweethearts  and  have  "er  big  time," 
as  I  heard  one  express  his  anticipations.  They  all  wore 
brogans  that  had  never  felt  the  touch  of  a  blacking- 
brush,  pants  three  inches  too  short,  coats  that  came  a 
little  below  the  waist  line,  and  hats  too  large,  having  to 
be  put  far  back  on  the  head  to  prevent  their  interfering 

810 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  CRACKERS  311 

with  the  sight.  Every  boy  had  a  ten  cent  Japanese  fan, 
which  at  that  early  hour  he  was  using.  To  each  fan 
was  attached  at  least  three  yards  of  red  ribbon  about  an 
inch  wide.  When  the  fan  was  not  in  use  the  ribbon  was 
wound  carefully  around  it  to  the  end,  about  two  yards 
being  left  free.  The  cracker  then  put  it  in  his  coat 
pocket,  leaving  the  two  yards  of  ribbon  streaming.  On 
one  lapel  of  his  coat  was  a  bow  of  red  ribbon  two  inches 
or  more  in  width,  on  the  other  a  red  rose.  Many  ot 
these  young  fellows  were  schoolboys,  and  they  had  prob- 
ably improved  in  dress  since  their  contact  with  the 
teachers,  and  yet  their  attire  seemed  to  me  as  fantastic 
as  when  I  first  saw  them  on  the  night  of  their  party. 

Love  feast  was  held  at  nine  o'clock,  and  a  large 
number  assembled  in  the  tent  to  attend  it.  Men  who 
had  not  spoken  to  each  other  for  years  were  present,  but 
I  noticed  that  they  did  not  speak  when  the  meeting  was 
over;  it  had  not  been  a  feast  of  love  for  them,  though 
they  had  testified  that  it  was.  Women,  whose  main 
employment  out  of  the  cotton  patch  or  corn  field  was 
gossip,  were  there,  but  they  did  not  leave  the  tent  be- 
fore the  gossiping  began  again.  It  had  not  been  a  love 
feast  for  them  either,  though  they  believed  at  the  time 
that  it  was. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  service  the  minister  had 
prayed  that  the  Lord  would  come  down  ^  ^precisely  at 
nine  o'clock"  and  meet  with  them,  but  some  hearts  had 
not  been  ready  to  receive  Him  at  that  hour. 

Bill  preached  at  eleven  o'clock.  There  was  atten- 
tion but  no  excitement,  and  I  saw  the  crackers  were  not 
pleased. 

**Bill  done  fine,  but  we  uns  likes  er  preacher  what 
tin  stir  us  up.  Bill  ain't  the  stirrin'  kind.  We  uns  '11 
ax  yer  son  ter  preach  ter  night,  and  see  what  he  kin  do. 
Thar  ain't  no  way  ter  bring  folks  'round  'out  you  kin 
gin  'em  in  shoutin'  order." 

In  the  afternoon  I  took  a  walk  and  on  my  return 
lay  down  on  the  grass  not  far  from   the  tent.     Several 


312  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

buggies  were  near,  and  in  each  a  young  man  and  woman 
were  sittiag.  I  was  in  an  atmosphere  of  cracker  court- 
ship. One  couple  I  had  noticed  before ;  they  were  now 
in  the  buggy  nearest  me. 

"Thar  ain't  no  use  in  waitin'  ter  git  er  edication 
'caze  it  takes  too  long,  Melindy.  Me  and  you  orter 
marry  now,  right  shortly;  what  you  say  ter  gittin'  off 
here  at  the  camp  ground?  You'd  be  looked  at  more'n 
you  ever  wus  'fore,  and  ever'  body  'd  be  talkin'  'bout 
'Miss  Melindy;'  now  'tain't  wuth  while  to  talk  'bout 
puttin'  it  off,  'caze  ef  you  do  I'll  go  an'  talk  ter  some 
other  gal  what  keers  more  fer  me'n  she   do  fer  school.'^ 

*'Naw  you  won't,  Tim  Beck,  'caze  I'll  marry  you 
right  here  'fore  this  camp's  broke  up;  but  thar  s  wun 
thing  I  ain't  never  tole  you  what  I  expects  I  orter  tell 
you  'fore  we  uns  wed.     I's   kinder    'shamed  ter,   too.'^ 

''Don't  be 'shamed,  Melindy;  we  uns  is  mos'  wed 
now.  You  alius  wus  er  backward  gal,  though ;  you 
never  will  speak  right  out,  an'  you'll  blush  ef  I  look  at 
you  hard.     Tell  me,  Melindy;   it  won't  matter  now." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  ter,  but  Tim,  we  uns,  dad  an' 
mam  an'  the  chillun  an'  me,  is  all  metaphysicians,  an'^ 
mebbe  you  won't  like  that?" 

"Oh!  that  don't  matter,  Melindy;  dad  an'  mam 
an'  me  an'  the  chillun  at  our  house  is  all  Meth'dists,  an' 
I  reckon  they  must  be  kinder  'like  er  they  wouldn't 
sound  the  same.  We  won't  fuss  'bout  the  Church. 
What  does  you  all  b'lieve  in?" 

"We  uns  b'lieve  the  same  as  you,  but  we  uns  callt 
ourselves  dif'rent;  I  thought  mebbe  you  wouldn't  like 
the  name." 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,  Melindy;  now  let's  take  er 
ride  an'  sot  the  day,"  and  he  hitched  the  old  farm  mule 
to  the  rickety  buggy  with  trace  chain  and  shuck  collar 
instead  of  regular  harness,  and  they  drove  off. 

Their  case  was  not  so  bad  as  that  of  a  Georgia  rep-^ 
resentative,  who,  when  asked  the  altitude  of  his  section,, 
said:    "I  never  went  into  stertisticks,  but  jedgin'  from 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CK ACKERS  31  a 

what  I've  seed,  I  should  say  they  wus  moBtly  Baptists." 

"Yer  son  ain't  the  stirrin'  sort  neither,"  my  hostess 
said,  with  a  sigh,  after  the  night  service. 

I  slept  well  until  I  turned  in  the  night  and  touched 
something  sticky.  I  tried  to  discover  from  feeling  what 
it  was,  but  could  not.  I  lighted  a  tin  lamp  near  my  bed 
and  looked ;  the  substance  was  some  kind  of  preserve. 
The  noise  I  made  in  rising  had  awakened  the  cracker 
woman's  husband,  as  well  as  Bill  and  my  son-in-law, 
who  were  all  in  the  room  with  me. 

"It  will  happen  so  sometimes,  Mr.  Ramla ;  'tain't 
very  pleasant  ter  sleep  on  'sarves;  I's  sorry.  Sary  is 
too  keerless.  She  ought  not  ter  'a'  let  the  'sarves  drap. 
But  mebby  'twarn't  Sary;  thar's  so  many  folks  eats  at  a 
table." 

I  had  seen  the  woman  winding  the  sheet  off  of  the 
bed  the  day  before,  and  her  husband's  words  confirmed 
my  suspicion. 

The  next  day  great  preparation  was  made  for  the 
morning  service. 

*'We  uns  is  goin'  ter  have  er  shoutin'  preacher  ter- 
day,  what'll  do  us  all  good.  Yer  preachers  may  do  fur 
Warlepkey,  but  they  don't  do  fur  here." 

Dinner  was  being  prepared  before  the  service.  Mut- 
ton was  the  only  meat,  I  thought;  certainly  I  was  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  it  was  one  of  the  meats.  There 
was  great  excitement  and  much  shouting  at  the  tent  be- 
fore the  sermon;  a  prayer-meeting  service  had  been  held 
and  had  aroused  the  people.  My  hostess  called  to  her 
daughter: 

"Here,  Jinny,  come  tend  ter  the  mutton  an'  let  me 
go  an'  jine  the  happy  folks  down  ter  the  tent.  I's  so 
glad  they's  woke  up." 

She  walked  rapidly  off,  and  I  followed  her.  She 
had  hardly  got  inside  the  tent  before  she  began  shout- 
ing. After  the  usual  exclamations  and  peculiar  move- 
ments that  characterized  her  shouting  had  lasted  a  half 
hour  or  more,  she  thought  of  her  mutton,  and  continu- 


814  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

ing  the  movements  she  shouted,  to  the  tune  of  "How 
Happy  are  They  who  the  Saviour  Obey,"  "Jinny,  don't 
let  the  mutton  burn,"  and  finished  in  the  words  of  the 
song.  The  shouting  continued  until  the  people  were  ex- 
hausted, and  the  morning  services  began. 

I  have  seen  people  shout  and  really  feel  they  served 
the  Lord  shouting.  I  have  teen  others  shout  when  they 
were  merely  screaming,  and  seemed  to  have  no  real  holi- 
ness of  feeling  at  all,  and  they  kept  up  their  screaming 
until  it  became  a  dissipation  and  did  them  positive  injury. 

After  the  morning  sermon   the   minister,  who,   not 
withstanding    the    excited    condition    of     the    people, 
preached  in  a  manner  to  excite   them  still  more,   called 
one  of  the  old  crackers  to   pray.     The    cracker  prayed 
with  great  effort  of  voice : 

"The  devil  is  in  ever'  wun  of  we  uns,  an'  we  uns 
needn't  ter  say  he  ain't.  I  wish  ever'  body  know'd  jes' 
how  he's  pesterin'  me  now,  an'  tormentin'  ter  git  me  ter 
go  his  way." 

Just  then  a  stray  goat  came  into  the  tent,  and  the 
old  man  being  the  most  conspicuous  object,  it  ran 
toward  him,  stood  off  a  short  distance  as  if  considering 
what  to  do,  and  then  butted  him  in  the  rear  just  as  he 
was  saying,  "Yes,  the  devil  pesters  me  before  an'  be- 
hind an'  ter  the  side."  He  stopped  short  and  looked 
around. 

'''Tain't  the  devil  this  time,  Uncle  Bob;  it's  my  old 
Billy  goat,"  someone  said. 

The  old  man  kept  praying,  "Come  down  an'  wipe 
folks  off  o'  the  earth." 

"I'd  ruther  he'd  come  down  and  wipe  out  the 
devil,"  another  voice  said. 

That  night  a  number  of  persons  professed  to  be  con- 
verted. The  minister  called  on  a  young  cracker  boy  to 
pray.     The  boy  began  : 

"Lord,  you  jes'  orter  'a'  been  here;  we  uns  has  had 
fourteen  or  fifteen  o'  the  brightest  conversions  you  ever 
saw;  but  you  missed  it  all,  Lord,  by  not  bein'  here." 


DOWN    AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  315 

The  prayer  was  so  peculiar  that  the  minister  stopped 
the  boy ;  and  yet,  is  it  not  true  that  at  some  so-called 
conversions  the  Lord  is  not  present?  It  would  be  wrong, 
and  my  conscience  would  not  allow  me,  to  tell  these 
things  if  they  were  not  true,  but  every  incident  I  have 
recited  really  occurred. 

Another  character  at  the  camp-meeting  was  an  old 
woman  who  kept  shouting,  "Praise  the  Ram." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sister,"  the  minister  said;  "it 
is  not  'Ram'  but  'Lamb.'     Praise  the  'Lamb.'  " 

"Oh!  well,"  she  said,  "I  know'd  it  was  somethin' 
with  wool  on  its  back." 

This  was  too  ridiculous  to  make  the  relating  of  it 
sacrilegious;   the  Lord  beareth  with  ignorance. 

Another  character  was  a  little  girl  about  ten  years 
old  who  came  to  Bill  and  asked  him  the  way  to  life.  Bill 
taught  her  plainly  and  simply,  and  she  started  "in  the 
straight  and  narrow  way,"  in  which  it  is  said,  "a  little 
child  shall  lead  them,"  a  road  so  plain  that  a  child  may 
never  lose  the  way,  and  so  plain  that  many  men  and 
women  never  find  it.  I  did  not  doubt  this  child's  con- 
version at  the  time,  and  have  never  doubted  it  since. 
She  is  now  a  leader  in  the  school  and  in  the  church. 

"I  should  not  know  what  to  do  without  her,"  the 
president  of  the  college  near  her  home  said  to  me. 

Shall  any  say  that  the  camp-meeting  was  a  failure? 
Surely  it  was  not.  It  was  the  dawn  of  new  life  to  this 
child  and  to  hundreds  through  her,  and  it  was  a  help  to 
many  of  the  older  crackers. 

The  marriage  took  place  just  before  we  left,  but 
whether  the  difference  between  Metaphysicians  and 
Methodists  really  made  any  difference  in  the  family  pol- 
icy or  not  I  never  heard. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A  few  days  after  our  return  to  Walesca  I  said  to  my 
friend : 

"Do  you  remember  that,  when  Callaway  was  here^ 
there  was  some  trouble  with  the  whitecaps?  I  am  afraid 
they  are  going  to  give  us  more  trouble  now." 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

"They  have  punished  several  men  lately,  who  allege 
that  they  were  innocent,  and  that  they  were  maltreated 
on  account  of  some  personal  dislike  on  the  part  of  cer- 
tain members  of  the  band.  If  the  motives  of  the  white- 
caps  were  ever  considered  good,  they  were  now  im- 
pugned. They  are  said,  too,  to  be  in  league  with  the 
moonshiners;  indeed,  it  is  asserted  that  some  of  them 
are  moonshiners.  I  have  heard  also  that  some  of  the 
school  boys  belonged  to  the  band.  Such  association, 
even  if  they  never  engage  in  the  evil  practices  of  the  or- 
ganization, is  bad." 

"But  there  are  no  moonshiners  here  now,"  he  said. 

"Not  in  this  section,  but  there  are  some  in  the  moun- 
tains." 

"Well,  I  will  see  that  the  students  do  not  belong  to 
this  lawless  band.  But  what  more  we  can  do  to  lessen 
the  evil  I  do  not  know." 

"Nor  do  I ;  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  endanger  your- 
self by  doing  even  that  much,"  I  said. 

"How?" 

"Why  the  whitecaps  will   make  you  suffer  for  it." 

"I  think  not;  but  if  they  should,  I  must  still  do  my 
duty." 

The  next  day  the  fall  term  of  school  began,  and  a 
few  days  later  the  president  called  the  attention  of  the 
school  to  the  matter. 

316 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  317 

"The  whitecaps  may  have  the  good  of  the  commu- 
nity  at  heart,  but  their  methods  are  doubtful,  and  their 
organization  is  lawless.  We  are  trying  to  teach  you  to 
observe  law  and  order,  so  that  when  you  leave  here  you 
may  never  subject  yourselves  to  the  punishments  of  the 
law,  but  may  become  worthy  and  useful  citizens  of  your 
commonwealth,  and  thus  become  worthy  and  useful  citi- 
zens at  last  of  the  Great  Commonwealth.  I  understand 
that  some  of  you  are  members  of  the  whitecap  band.  I 
am  fearful  for  those  boys ;  whatever  good  they  may 
accomplish,  if  any,  is  of  small  weight  with  the  erroneous 
principles  they  may  learn,  and  I  must  beg  that  they 
withdraw  from  the  organization  at  once.  From  this 
time  a  new  law  is  written  in  the  college  code :  No  stu- 
dent will  be  allowed  to  belong  to  the  society  calling 
itself  'The  White  Cap  Band.'  Any  student  connected 
with  that  organization  when  he  enters  school  and  not 
withdrawing  immediately,  or  any  student  joining  the 
society  while  here,  will  be  subject  to  expulsion.  Every 
male  student  must  subscribe  to  this  law  now." 

The  students,  all  but  one,  subscribed  without  hesi- 
tation. The  young  man  who  did  not  subscribe  came  to 
the  president  privately  and  said  he  could  not  honestly 
sign  the  law,  because  he  was  a  whitecap  and  did  not 
care  to  withdraw  from  the  organization.  Other  mem- 
bers of  it  in  the  school  had  signed  the  law  with  no  in- 
tention of  keeping  it,  but  he  was  not  willing  to  do  that. 
He  refused  to  tell  who  they  were,  but  was  so  honest 
about  himself  that  the  president  gave  him  time  to  think 
over  the  matter.  We  made  an  eifort  to  find  out  who  the 
boys  were,  and  found  proof  against  two. 

One  morning  not  long  after  this  my  son-in-law 
found  a  notice  posted  upon  his  door : 

"Any  man  who  interferes  with  the  White  Cap 
Band,  or  forbids  membership  in  it,  endangers  himself.'* 

"As  I  expected,"  I  said;  "you  had  better  be  on 
your  guard." 

He  laughed  :  "Surely  they  will  not  attack  a  minis- 
ter." 


818  DOWN   AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

**They  will  attack  anybody  who  interferes  with 
them." 

That  afternoon  he  said  to  me:  *'I  must  go  to  see 
Mol's  mother  to-night;  she  is  very  sick." 

Remembering  the  threatening  notice  of  the  white- 
caps,  and  being  anxious  for  his  safety,  I  said: 

'*I  will  go  with  you.  I  had  thought  of  going  be- 
fore you  mentioned  it." 

We  rode  out  together  in  the  evening,  and  found 
Mr»3.  Smith  very  ill  indeed.  She  asked  for  Mol,  but  we 
had  no  means  of  notifying  the  girl.  I  felt  sure  she 
would  hear,  though,  and  come  as  she  had  done  before. 
Mrs.  Smith  asked  to  see  Bill  also,  and  I  rode  over  to  his 
mother's,  and  brought  them  both  back  with  me. 

Becky  Jane,  the  girl  whom  Mol  had  hired  to  be 
with  her  mother,  was  there.     She  said : 

**The  doctor  seys  she  kin  git  well  ef  her  speerits 
don't  git  too  low.  Her  speerits  is  pow'ful  low  now, 
though.  Mol  ain't  here;  that's  what's  pestering 
her." 

I  told  Mrs.  Smith  again  that  I  was  sure  Mol  would 
come,  and  the  assurance  seemed  to  brighten  her.  Bill's 
presence  comforted  her  most,  however,  and  she  said  to 
him; 

"You  alius  did  'pear  like  my  child,  Bill,  most  as 
much  as  Mol,  an'  whin  she  ain't  here,  I  likes  ter  have 
you  by.  Bill,  I  wish  it  had  'a'  been  so  you  an'  Mol  could 
'a'  wed,  but  I  reckin'  it's  all  right  like  it  is." 

We  went  out  and  left  them  alone,  and  when  we  re- 
turned I  am  sure  Bill  had  sweetened  the  old  woman's 
life  by  kind  words. 

We  stayed  until  a  late  hour,  trying  to  cheer  the 
sick  woman,  and,  leaving  Becky  Jane  and  Mrs.  Collins 
with  her,  started  to  Walesca  about  one  o'clock.  Bill, 
who  was  as  anxious  as  I  about  my  son-in-law,  went  with 
us. 

When  we  reached  the  top  of  the  mountain,  a  man 
emerged  from  the  bushes  and  cried : 

*'Halt!" 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  319^ 

We  urged  our  horses  so  as  to  pass  him,  but  he  gave 
a  low  whistle,  and  about  a  hundred  men  from  behind 
bush  and  tree  were  in  the  road  in  an  instant.  The  pe- 
culiar dress  showed  that  thej  were  whitecaps.  They 
caught  the  horses'  bridles  and  commanded  us  to  dis- 
mount.    Bill  rose  in  his  stirrups. 

"What  is  this  for?"  he  asked.  **We  have  all  lived 
among  you,  and  you  know  our  characters.  What  have 
we  done  that  you  should  thus  attack  us?" 

"Zow  have  done  nothing;  we  do  not  want  you,  but 
these  men  with  you  have  told  lies  about  us  and  have  in- 
terfered with  our  work  by  forbidding  the  students  of 
Reinhart  College  to  be  members  of  our  organization. 
They  have  no  right  to  do  this,  and  we  will  show  them 
that  men  who  attempt  to  injure  our  organization  will 
not  escape  punishment." 

"They  only  sought  to  protect  the  students  under 
their  care  from  the  injurious  influences  of  your  Society. 
However  much  good  you  may  do,  your  organization  is 
not  one  to  which  boys  should  belong.  You  teach  them 
lawlessness,  and  lawlessness  may  make  criminals  of 
them." 

"You  are  a  little  too  glib,  Bill;  we  will  take  you 
too;"  and  they  pulled  us  all  from  our  horses. 

They  bound  our  hands  and  took  us  into  the  woods. 
We  tried  to  reason  with  them,  but  they  would  not  listen. 
We  begged  to  be  released,  but  they  paid  no  heed  to  our 
entreaties. 

"Nothing  will  save  you  but  to  retract  what  you 
have  said." 

My  son-in-law  was  very  calm.  "I  have  said  nothing 
that  I  should  retract." 

"Annul  the  law  forbidding  your  students  to  belong 
to  our  organization." 

"Never!"  he  said. 

"This  is  barbarous!"  Bill  exclaimed.  "Here  are 
the  men  who  have  served  you  for  years ;  the  whole  state 
has  felt  their  good  influence,    but   because  they  oppose 


320  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

the  lawlessness  that  you  have  put  in  action,  you  waylay 
and  maltreat  them." 

*'Be  careful,  Bill;  there  are  other  punishments  than 
the  one  we  are  going  to  inflict  to-night." 

Just  then  a  voice  that  I  recognized,  though  I  had 
never  heard  it  in  such  fiercely  commanding  tones  before, 
rang  out : 

"Halt  men!      What  does  this  mean?" 

"Who  is  this?"  they  asked. 

"You  know  me." 

I  knew  him,  too.  It  was  the  apparition  of  the 
mountain. 

"If  you  have  any  influence  with  these  men,  make 
them  release  us,"  I  said. 

"Release  them!"  he  commanded.  "Shame  upon 
your  organization,  that  claims  to  deal  with  the  vicious ! 
Bill  Collins,  a  spotless,  peerless  minister,  a  man  whom 
you  all  know  and  should  honor;  the  president  of  Rein- 
hart  College,  who  for  ten  years  has  served  you  better 
than  any  other  man  who  has  been  in  the  country,  and 
his  co-laborer,  Mr.  Ramla.  They  have  been  wearing 
their  lives  out  in  your  service,  and  this  is  the  reward  you 
offer  them.  This  act  is  sufficient  to  justify  the  disper- 
sion of  this   band,  and  I  here  and  now  disperse  you." 

They  slunk  back  and  were  soon  lost  to  sight  in 
the  woods.  The  man  whom  I  had  begun  to  regard 
as  my  protector,  released  us  and  started  off  without  a 
word. 

"Stay!"  I  said;  and  we  thanked  him  for  his  time- 
ly intervention. 

"It  was  nothing  but  common  humanity,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Will  you  not  reveal  you  identity?"  I  asked. 

"Not  now,"  he  answered.  "Be  on  the  mountain 
to-morrow  at  noon." 

He  disappeared  and  we  reached  Walesca  without 
further  molestation. 

When  I  went  to  the  mountain  the  next  day  the 
strange  man  was  already  there. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  321 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said ;  "I  am  now 
ready  to  reveal  myself." 

"To  reveal  your  identity,  you  mean,"  I  said;  '■'your- 
self was  revealed  to  me  long  ago." 

He  smiled.  ''I  shall  be  brief;  I  am  McCabe's 
brother.  There  was  a  large  family  of  us.  We  lived  in 
South  Carolina.  When  quite  young,  one  of  my  brothers 
— not  the  one  you  know — and  myself  left  home.  We 
went  North,  educated  ourselves,  and  might  have  become 
men  of  influence  but  we  were  dissipated.  We  have  both 
been  private  detectives  and  that  was  my  business  when 
I  first  came  here.  I  was  employed  by  the  still-owner 
who  died  some  time  ago,  to  see  that  you  did  not  inter- 
fere with  the  whiskey  traffic,  and,  if  possible,  to  keep 
you  from  staying.  For  this  purpose  I  tried  to  frighten 
you  by  my  mysterious  appearances  and  peculiar  dress 
at  night,  and  on  one  occasion,  by  firing  in  the  road  just 
in  front  of  you.  Some  nights  I  stayed  in  a  little  hut 
here  on  the  mountain ;  that  was  after  I  found  you  came 
here  so  often.  I  was  in  the  hut  the  night  you  were 
caught  In  the  snowdrift.  I  was  rarely  here  except  at 
night,  however.  I  lived  in  Cartersville.  Few  people  in 
this  section  know  me  even  yet,  and  they  know  me  by 
another  name  than  McCabe.  I  watched  you  closely,  and 
soon  became  convinced  that  you  were  doing  a  self-sacri- 
ficing work.  I  then  told  the  still-owner  that  I  would  not 
interfere  with  you  if  you  should  close  every  still  in  the 
mountains.  I  gave  you  a  map  of  this  section,  and  when 
you  made  your  perilous  journeys  to  the  stills,  watched 
you  as  I  would  have  done  my  brother.  I  saved  your 
life  more  than  once,  Mr.  Lamar,  for  that  is  your  real 
name." 

I  thanked  him.  "Yes,"  I  continued,  "Lamar  is  my 
name ;  I  told  the  crackers  so,  long  ago,  but  they  still^ 
<;all  me  'Ramla, '  since  that  is  the  iiame  by  which  they 
first  knew  me,  and  my  occupation  is  rambling,  they  say." 

"I  did  not  know  for  a  long  while  that  the  desperado, 
McCabe,   was   my  brother.     I  had  not  heard  from  my 


322  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CEACKERS 

family  since  I  was  a  boy,  and  did  not  know  that  they  had 
moved  to  Georgia.  I  was  present  at  McCabe's  trial, 
though  you  did  not  know  it,  and  I  became  convinced 
that  he  was  my  brother.  I  did  not  care  to  make  myself 
known,  however,  partly  because  I  was  a  detective,  and 
it  was  best  not  to  be  known  in  this  section  where  so 
many  crimes  were  being  committed,  and  partly  because 
I  could  not  have  watched  you  so  closely  had  you  known 
me.  After  the  still-owner's  death  I  got  appointed  on 
the  regular  detective  police  force,  and  I  have  been  de- 
tailed for  some  time  to  watch  the  whitecaps.  I  was 
preparing  to  present  three  of  them  before  last  night's  af- 
fair, and  that  has  determined  me  more  than  ever  to  have 
the  leaders  punished.  Some  of  the  leaders  knew  that  I 
am  an  officer  of  justice,  and  they  were  afraid  of  the  con- 
sequences if  they  had  obstructed  me  in  the  performance 
of  my  duty.  In  the  presence  of  so  many  it  was  neces- 
sary to  make  a  bold  stroke,  and  the  bluff  coupled  with 
their  surprise  at  my  unexpected  appearance,  had  the  de- 
sired effect." 

**Yes,"  I  said,  ''it  was  indeed  a  bold  stroke,  and 
we  have  to  thank  your  bravery  for  escaping  outrage  by 
those  ruffians.     You  ran  a  great  risk." 

**Well,"  he  replied,  with  feeling,  *'I  was  but  repay- 
ing a  small  part  of  my  debt  to  you.  Your  life  here  has 
converted  me  from  the  error  of  my  ways," 

"Not  my  life,"  I  said,  "but  the  Christian  work 
here." 

**The  work  has  been  wonderful,"  he  replied.  '*I 
do  not  care  to  be  a  detective  any  longer,  and  when  I  get 
through  with  these  whitecaps  I  will  quit  the  business* 
1  have  made  myself  known  to  my  relatives  here,  and 
henceforth  will  try  to  help  them  and  the  world  a 
little." 

I  promised  to  aid  him,  and  we  parted  with  a  cordial 
handshake. 

He  was  as -good  as  his  word,  and  after  bringing  the 
ringleaders  of  the  whitecaps  to  justice,  and  breaking  up 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  32a 

the  organization,  he  went  to  live  among  the  crackers 
whom  we  had  visited  at  the  time  of  their  camp-meeting, 
and  he  ie  now  doing  excellent  work  in  helping  to  civilize 
that  benighted  people. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

Mol  came  in  a  few  days,  and  I  hoped  her  mother 
would  be  much  benefited,  but  it  was  too  late;  her 
strength  was  gone. 

"Mighty  glad  ter  see  you,  Mol,  glad  you  come  'fore 
yer  mam  dies.  Don't  cry,  chile,  you's  been  right  ter 
stay  'way.  Thar  won't  no  chance  of  doin'  nothin' 
here,  an'  you  wus  too  smart  ev  gal  ter  be  here  alius.  I's 
got  'long  the  best  kind.  Becky  Jane  has  been  good,  an' 
«ver'  body  else  has,  too.  Mr.  Ramla  has  been  here,  and 
Miss  Katherine  and  her  husband,  an'  they  has  all  done 
er  heap  fur  me.  Thar  ain't  been  no  trouble  'cept  I 
missed  you."  This  was  harrowing  to  Mol.  "Taint  no 
use  ter  cry,  Mol,  you  wus  right.  I's  glad  you  went. 
Now,  take  keer  o'  yerself,  Mol,  an'  be  good  like  you's 
alius  been." 

Bill  was  with  Mrs.  Smith  to  the  last,  and  w&n  a  great 
<jomfort  to  Mol  in  her  trouble.  They  seemed  drawn 
nearer  to  each  other  by  this  sorrow,  and  I  thought  were 
learning  to  care  for  each  other  again. 

After  her  mother's  death  and  funeral  Mol  was  very 
lonely. 

"MissMollie,  what  will  you  do?"  I  asked  her  one 
day. 

'*I  do  not  know  yet.  I  have  few  personal  interests 
now.  I  think  I  shall  devote  myself  to  helping  the 
world.  My  first  thought  now  is  to  educating  Eecky 
Jane." 

Mol  was  educated  herself.  She  hardly  seemed  like 
the  same  girl. 

"It  is  so  strange  that  just  as  I  had  provided  a  com- 
fortable home  for  mother,  and  was  ready  to   take  her  to 

884 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  325 

it,  she  should  be  taken  from  me.  It  seems  almost  like 
punishment  for  my  long  absence  from  her  ;  but  I  thought 
I  was  staying  for  her  good." 

I  went  to  the  mountain  one  afternoon.  It  had 
never  looked  more  beautiful.  Rich  in  the  garb  of  Octo- 
ber, the  thousand  trees  spread  their  branches  in  gor- 
geous beauty;  red  and  orange  and  brown  and  yellow 
blended  with  wonderful  harmony  of  color;  and  waving 
in  the  wind,  with  rare  beams  of  sunlight  upon  them,  the 
leaves  seemed  an  undulating  sheet  of  iridescent  loveli- 
ness. The  white  cliffs  stood  gaunt  and  rugged  and 
glistening. 

I  sat  on  them  and  watched  Hogarth's  line  as  it  ap- 
peared in  curve  of  mountain,  slope  of  valley,  and  bend 
of  stream,  and  I  thought,  "This  is  the  creative  line." 
The  rush  of  the  mountain  waters  was  musical,  and  my 
mood  was  happy.  Like  a  boy  at  play,  I  rolled  stones 
and  worm-eaten  logs  down  the  mountain  side,  and 
watched  them  as  they  leaped  from  crag  to  crag  with  in- 
creasing impetus,  and  at  last  found  rest  in  the  valley. 

Presently  a  young  woman  approached  and  Mol 
came  and  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cliffs.  I 
watched  her  for  a  while  without  speaking.  She  had  aa 
easel,  and  began  to  sketch  the  scene  upon  which  I  had 
been  gazing  with  such  delight.  Her  touch  was  that  of 
a  master.  Finally,  laying  her  work  aside,  she  rested  her 
head  against  her  easel.  Her  weariness  was  of  mind 
rather  than  of  body.  Poor  soul!  she  was  so  lonely. 
She  sighed  heavily,  and  I  knew  she  was  crying.  I 
thought  at  first  of  leaving  her  in  her  sorrow,  but  some- 
times it  is  a  relief  to  have  a  friend  know  our  griefs. 

"Miss  Mollie,"  I  said,  "what  is  it?" 

She  started,  then  recognizing  me,  answered : 

"I  cannot  tell  you  what  burdens  my  heart;  I  do  not 
often  think  of  it  myself.  1  know  it  is  selfish.  Pardon 
my  weakness  and  leave  me ;  in  a  little  while  I  shall  feel 
stronger  and  braver." 

"You  have  always  been  strong  and  brave,  Miss  Mol- 


326  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CKACKERS 

lie;  it  is  not  a  weakness  to  feel  as  you  do  now.  Tell  me 
your  troubles ;  be  sure  I  am  your  friend,  and  if  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  help  you  materially,  I  shall  feel  for  you ; 
your  care  shall  be  mine." 

*'It  is  only  my  loneliness  and  the  feeling  that,  try 
as  I  will,  I  may  not  hope  to  realize  the  ends  for  which 
I  have  labored.  I  have  planned  so  many  things,  and 
labored  with  such  earnestness,  hoping  that  some  day  my 
heart's  desires  would  be  satisfied,  but  my  efforts,  as  far 
as  personal  happiness  is  concerned,  seem  to  have  been 
in  vain.  You  remember  when  you  and  Bill  tried  to  per- 
suade me  to  enter  school,  and  you  thought  it  stubborn- 
ness in  me  not  to  yield ;  but  I  was  not  stubborn;  I  knew 
it  was  not  best  for  me  to  be  educated  with  Bill  and  Mr. 
Oallaway.  Bill  really  cared  for  me  then,  and  Mr.  Cal 
laway,  though  he  never  loved  me,  was  inordinately 
jealous,  and  besides,  felt  the  greatest  delight  in  worry- 
ing Bill.  I  was  ambitious,  though,  on  my  own  account, 
and  because  I  expected  some  day  to  become  Bill's  wife. 
I  talked  to  Mias  Katherine  and  she  advised  me  to  go  off 
to  school.  I  received  a  kind  letter  from  your  wife,  ask- 
ing me  to  come  to  her.  I  thought  it  best  not  to  tell 
Anyone.  Perhapg  I  ought  to  have  told  my  mother,  but 
I  wanted  to  surprise  her,  as  well  as  Bill.  I  knew,  too, 
that  if  she  had  known  where  I  was,  she  could  not  help 
telling  Bill,  and  it  was  certainly  best  for  him  not  to 
know.  I  asked  Miss  Katherine  to  write  to  me  often  of 
my  mother,  and  of  Bill,  too.  But  of  course  she  could 
not  know  much  of  Bill's  feeling,  so  I  was  troubled,  and 
had  almost  decided  to  ask  you  to  write  me  of  Bill,  when 
I  met  a  strange  man,  the  one  who  inquired  about  you  at 
our  house." 

**Ye8,  I  know  him,"  I  interposed;  *'he  was  the  man 
who  watched  me  so  long." 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "he  advised  me  to  have  no- 
1;hing  to  do  with  Mr.  Callaway.  You  had  already  given 
me  this  advice,  and  I  had  determined  to  be  governed  by 
it ;  but'you  never  knew  that.     The  man  spoke  so  kindly 


DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS  327 

that  I  talked  [freely  to  him.  He  said  he  knew  every- 
thing that  happened  around  Walesca,  and  that  if  Bill 
should  cease  to  care  for  me,  he  would  be  sure  to 
know  it.  I  then  asked  him  to  write  to  me  when  he 
thought  it  necessary.  I  thought  I  should  be  able  to  for- 
get Bill  whenever  I  tried,  but  when  I  first  heard  that  he 
no  longer  cared  for  me,  it  almost  broke  my  heart.  I 
made  greater  efforts,  however,  to  learn,  trying  to  forget 
my  heart's  pain  in  work.  Mr.  Ramla,  I  have  never  for- 
gotten it.  Then  I  labored  to  make  my  mother's  last 
years  years  of  happiness  and  ease,  and  just  as  I  had 
fitted  a  sweet,  comfortable  home  for  her,  she  was  taken 
from  me." 

*'It  is  best  as  it  is,"  I  said,  "or  our  Father  would 
not  have  permitted  it.  Tell  me,"  I  continued,  trying  to 
help  her  forget  her  sorrows,  "where  you  were  all  those 
years." 

**At  first  I  was  with  your  wife,  except  when  you 
were  at  home,"  she  said,  smiling,  for  I  had  never  seen 
her  there.  "I  graduated  in  a  female  college  in  your 
town,  and  when  Miss  Katherine  went  to  Wellesley,  I 
went  too,  and  we  graduated  together,  with  honors.  We 
were  both  offered  positions  as  sub-professors.  You  and 
Mrs.  Ramla  did  not  wish  Miss  Katherine  to  accept  a 
position  then,  but  the  offer  was  a  blessing  to  me.  The 
income  enabled  me  to  pay  Mrs.  Ramla  all  that  I  owed 
her — that  is,  all  in  money ;  I  can  never  pay  her  in  kind- 
ness. It  enabled  me,  too,  to  buy  the  home  for  mother. 
But  that  is  now  vacant,  and  I  am  alone." 

I  heard  a  step,  and  turning,  saw  Bill.  I  left  them, 
feeling  that  all  would  be  right. 

That  night  Bill  told  me  that  all  was  right;  that  he 
had  for  some  time  felt  that  his  love  for  Mol  had  come 
l^ack ;  and  that  he  loved  her  with  a  deeper,  purer  and 
more  unselfish  love  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  the  past. 

They  are  now  married,  and  as  happy  as  they  de- 
serve to  be. 

My  son  and  daughter  still  remain  at  Walesca ;  there 


328  DOWN  AMONG  THE   CRACKERS 

Beems  never  a  time  when  they  can  leave ;  the  place  needs 
them. 

All^is!peaceful  and  pleasant  at  Walesca  now.  The 
old  crackers  still  complain  of  the  changes,  but  they  are 
happy  even  in  complaining. 

Surely,  then,  I  may  at  last  rejoice  over  the  triumph 
of  **Light'in  Darkness.*' 


THE    END. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA—BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

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YC  45897 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


